


Intervening Processes (We've Got This)

by Sandalaris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AH AU, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Derek Hale is a Mess, Inspired by Suicide Squad, M/M, Sort of because it's still set in a superhero/supervillian setting, but not an exact fusion or crossover for it, but they're happy, gray-morality, mental manipulation, morally gray Stiles is the best Stiles, non-healthy people forming not-so-healthy relationships, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-01-25 00:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandalaris/pseuds/Sandalaris
Summary: "'An easily bored sociopath with a high IQ and focus issues?' You sound like every other quack out there with a psych degree. Come on, nephew, tell me you're better than that."Derek doesn't say anything, still flipping through his notes. It's not so simple,Stilesis not so simple. He just can't put his finger on why yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A weird sort of Suicide Squad!Sterek only without the actual plot of Suicide Squad. Featuring a combo Harley-Joker!Stiles. Derek as Dr. Harleen Quinzel and Bruce Wayne combined. But not Batman. That's Scott. And kind of Laura. Boyd is Alfred, except for when it's Deaton, who's also his own superhero. Lydia is also [Redacted for Spoilers] :P

The young man sitting before Derek is lanky. Deceptively thin with wiry strength hidden behind a goofy grin and a shock of spiky, dark brown hair. Even with the evidence sitting before him in various photos and paperwork it's hard to believe this man took out half a squad of GCPD's finest without sustaining permanent injury. A busted lip and an abrasion along his cheek are the only visible signs of the fight that Derek can see from his seat. 

"What's up, _doc_?" 

The abbreviated title is stretched out, clipped at the end with a snap of sharp, white teeth while as set of laughing brown eyes regard Derek's stiff posture. Stiles doesn't even glance at the closed file sitting before his assigned psychiatrist and Derek makes a mental note. 

The new guy is something of a mystery. A never-been-heard-of in a city crawling with criminals treated like celebrities. It's a fight to reach the top, but every low-life's got a name and a file except this kid who appeared out of nowhere and made his mark with a bang. And signed himself up for a one-way ticket to Eichen House in the process. 

Derek uncrosses his arms, one hand coming out to rest on the file, tapping it. Drawing attention to it. 

"My name is Dr. Hale, and I'll be overseeing your treatment during your stay. Do you know why you're here?" he begins. 

Stiles tilts his head, exposing the scattering of moles across one cheek to the muted lights of one of their more secure room. His gaze darts down to Derek's hand on the file before flickering around the spartan room with scattered focus. Doesn't find anything but the bolted table and chairs they are occupying he's sure. Derek's not even allowed a paper clip in here. 

"Age old question, dude. Why why why." He snorts, gaze returning to Derek and settling there almost absently, wide mouth twisting up on one side. "Philosophy never was my class of choice." 

Stiles shifts in the straight jacket, twitching under the binds and rattling the chains binding his feet to the metal chair legs. He was violent when they brought him in, ranting, biting, and kicking until they managed to get him sedated. Took nearly forty-eight hours for him to come down, although he's yet to be truly still for them. 

Derek tries a different method. "Tell me about the bat." 

Among the various weapons found on his person, almost all of which he'd let be taken from him with nothing more than snarky commentary, the baseball bat was the only one out of the ordinary. The only one Stiles had shown any real reaction to being separated from, according to the police reports. It was aluminum, a common brand found at most sporting good stores. The surface once a plain, smooth metal now seeming almost tattooed with intricate patterns and lines of script all in vibrant colors. The word "Stiles" was imprinted in all caps lengthwise in red down one side, "Sheriff" in blue on the other. 

In the room now Stiles twitches at his shoulders and slides his lower back against the seat. Clumsy and graceful all at once. "You mean Betty? Yeah, I'm gonna be wanting that back in one piece, big guy." 

"Why a baseball bat?" 

There's a flash of annoyance, a look that clearly declares how low he views Derek's intelligence. "Because they're pretty. Why do you think, dumbass?" 

"OK then, why a metal bat?" 

"Because the wooden ones break." 

Another look, like Derek is failing a test and Stiles is disappointed but unsurprised. 

Stiles slouches further, boredom displayed in every bit of body language. It prickles something in Derek, watching that long neck bare itself as Stiles rolls his head onto the back of the chair, blatantly dismissing him. 

"You're avoiding the question." 

Now Stiles smiles, cruel and gleeful, suddenly sitting up and leaning forward with a long stretch of focused of attention. Derek suppresses a shiver. 

"Bet you'd know all about that, don't you, doc? Dancing around the questions you want to ask, testing the waters. But I promise, I don't bite." He laughs suddenly, a bark of sound as he all but doubles over, chin nearly brushing the metal table between them. "Well, not always." 

He sits back up with a slow, measured roll of his spine, looking up through his lashes at him. His eyes are the color of warm whiskey. The good kind Derek's dad used to pull out when the important company came over. The kind he'd pour for Laura, Phillip, and Derek when he'd decided they'd earned it. 

He shakes off the memory, opening the folder before him and flipping to the first page. 

"You were asked a set of questions during your admittance process. Would you mind if we went back over them now that you're..." he pauses, glancing up at Stiles to gauge his reaction, "in better control." 

Stiles snorts, but there's no other response to Derek's word choice, sitting all the way back once more until he's slouched as low as the chains allow him to be, but keeping his gaze on him. 

"Have at it, _Doctor_ Hale." He rolls the L, lets it slide from his tongue until it taps the end of his teeth. 

"Your name," he begins, "it says here that it's 'Stiles.' Is there a last name with that?" 

With a groan, Stiles rolls his eyes, head falling back with a hard thump against the chair. 

"So uncreative. That's what you're going for? _My name_? Next." 

Derek didn't expect him to give it up so easily, not really. His prints hadn't been in the system, and it wasn't uncommon for some in the criminal circuit to consider their birth names as disconnected with their villain identity. Still, he'd hoped for at least a bit of an explanation on the name 'Stiles.' Something to connect it to chosen identity of the man in front of him. What one chooses is often so much more telling than what was assigned. 

"Date of birth?" 

"The day I was born," Stiles said, disinterest once again dripping from every pour of his pale skin, attention already drifting elsewhere. 

Derek tries a new tactic. "Come on, you can at least give me your age." 

"Don't worry, I'm legal." 

Derek picks up his pen, getting ready to write >17 in the notes before pausing. 

"Do you consider California to be your legal state of residence?" 

Surprise and possibly approval flash through Stiles' eyes, his head titling forward once more as he focuses part of his energy on Derek, body curling back into an upright position in the process. He can't help but feel a flicker of pride at having earned the mad man's approval. He ignores it. 

"Yes, I do." 

He continues with his note. 

"Any prior medical diagnosis we need to be aware of?" 

"Now now," Stiles coos with a low bit of laughter, "how will you learn if I give you all the answers?" 

"How will we not poison you if we don't know what you need?" Derek counters. 

"That's what makes it fun." 

"Dangerous, you mean." 

"Pa-tay-toe, pa-tah-toe." 

There's a pause as they each study the other, weighing up their opponent, or waiting for the other to break first. Derek's not sure which, not even sure they are playing the same game. 

Not a game, he reminds himself. Stiles is sick and Derek's here to treat him. 

"Alright then," he agrees, tabling that for later. "I don’t suppose you're going to tell me the name of any medications you are currently taking." 

"Multi-vitamin," Stiles says without pause, attention following unseen patterns on the walls once more. "And you'll probably want to keep me on caffeine." 

Derek makes a note. 

"Not Adderall?" he asks, testing. 

"You gonna give it to me if I say yes?" 

"I'd make a suggestion." 

Stiles snorts. 

"Come on, grumpy. You're either my doc or you're not. Which is it?" He leans forward again and Derek finds himself mimicking the move. His voice drops, becoming soft and intimate. Dangerous. "Are you mine, doctor?" 

Derek jerks back, suddenly irritated without reason. It's not the first time a patient has hit on him, The Hunter had been all about trying to get into his pants during their bi-weekly sessions before her escape, but something prickles under his skin, face growing hot. He doesn't answer, instead clenching his jaw on an angry retort. 

He expects a laugh, a needle for getting such an obvious rise out of him, anything. 

Stiles doesn't make a sound, just stares at him, lips parted and eyes wide and shiny. His breath rushes past his lips, a soft whistle and Derek's gaze gets snagged there. 

There's a knock on the metal door, drawing both their attention towards it and reminding Derek of the present. 

"Time's up," Derek says briskly, already standing and putting his patient's folder back together. "We'll continue this discussion at our next session." 

Stiles hmm's softly, back to slouching in his chair and eyes at half-mast as he goes unnaturally still, but Derek can still see that gaze locked on him, feel it follow him all the way to the door and impossibly beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and decided it'd be perfect for Sterek Week for the Scene Stealer theme. Then my muse went "but wait! There's more!" and I wrote another 7,000 words. Most of the "chapters" kind of stand on their own, so this is more of a series that I'm putting all into one fic.
> 
> Stiles may be slightly ooc, he's combined with a couple of insane clowns, but I tried to keep it as much "if Stiles was an insane possible villian" over "insane possible villian who happens to be named Stiles."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take two!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to have updated All the Little Pieces on Friday, but I haven't sent the chapter off to my beta reader yet, so my works without a beta reader are getting updated this weekend instead.

Stiles behaved during the three days between his first session and the second, the time spent running various blood tests and assessments. A couple of stimulants were found but all things Derek can see a doctor prescribing to the hyperactive young man. His own orders for Adderrall are still pending for another day, the standard detox all new patients go through, and the results of the x-rays showed no broken bones from the scuffle bringing him in. They don't have the budget to perform a dental scan or further blood work, nothing to determine identity or even age, but Derek makes due ordering what he can. 

Stiles has almost been a model patient since their first appointment, according to various nurses' notes and orderly reports, but Derek hadn't realized the extent of until a set of long fingered hands were tapping away against the metal in a rapid beat. They are strong hands with striking tendons that vibrated and flex as he moves. 

There's no more straight jacket, replaced instead by a set of chained handcuffs locked against the top edge of the table. Limiting his movements while still allowing more freedoms. It's supposed to act as an incentive to keep behaving. Less violence equals more freedoms. It rarely works. 

His patient's clothes have been replaced with the Eichen House's standard issued jumpsuit, a dull orange color that clashed horribly with Stiles' too pale pallor and deep circled eyes. 

"Trouble sleeping?" 

He already knows the answer. Got it in reports of two days of insomnia followed by sleepwalking the following the night. The guards reported speech as well, long spiels of sleepy sentences that they couldn't remember all the details of the next morning. Derek has already written orders to have surveillance cameras with audio recording options set up in Stiles' cell during today's session. 

"It's the pillow," Stiles says with a straight face. "Just can't sleep without my own." 

"Maybe you can tell us where it's at, and we'll go get it." 

Stiles laughs, full bodied with his head thrown back and chest shaking, exposing that long line of throat that demands attention again. More moles, where jaw meets neck and curling behind his ear. Derek looks away, digging his teeth into the inside of his bottom lip. 

Stiles' focuses back on him, whiskey gaze sparkling. The corner of Derek's mouth twitches upwards without his permission. 

"Dr. McGrumpy has jokes," he crows. 

"I can't offer you anything to help you sleep at this time, but maybe later. If everything goes well." 

There's a tsk of disappointment in his direction, Stiles giving him an exaggerated frown. Derek refuses to take the bait. 

"Are you ready to get back on track?" He opens the folder, pulls out the copy of the admittance sheet within. 

"That?" Stiles exclaims with a groan. "That's boring," he drags out the word as he rolls his neck on the back of the chair. It cracks and pops with the smooth movement. "Can't we talk about something more... tentilating?" 

He shouldn't play into Stiles' games, needs to establish boundaries now, but he has an inkling that he's managed to snag Stiles' attention, a sliver of his _respect_. He doesn't want to lose it. 

"What did you have in mind?" 

The grin that spreads across his patient's face is full of a delighted mischief. Stiles leans forward, stomach pressing into the edge of the table and half covering his locked hands. Derek almost tells him to lean back, keep the cuffs in sight but doesn't. He's not security, and the men and women who are are only a button push away. 

"Now there's a question," Stiles says with a dark joy, words dripping in approval that leave a warm flush spreading up Derek's neck. "How about," he tilts his head back and forth in an exaggerated pantomime of thinking, warm eyes looking up and away before his entire face lights up as if an idea has just struck, "Let's play a game." 

His gaze snaps back to Derek while Stiles' whole body seems to give a little wiggle as he settles into his seat. It shouldn't be so distracting. 

"I ask you a question, you ask me one. One rule: don't lie to me." 

"But you can lie to me?" 

Stiles grins, wide and pleased and teasing. "That's the game, doc. Lie or truth, truth or lie." He sits forward abruptly, chains rattling and body practically slamming into the edge of the table. Only his years of dealing with the criminally insane keep Derek from jerking back. "I'll give you a hint, it's probably both." He winks. 

He's intrigued, although it's twinged with annoyance, but mostly he's curious in a way he hasn't been in a while. It's a disturbing thought. 

"Alright," Derek agrees after a moment's pause. "Why don't you go first."

"How thoughtful," Stiles replies with an almost absent air, gaze trained on Derek and head tilting to the side a bit. Derek sits and let's himself be studied, nerves jumping under his skin as he holds himself steady. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, but anticipation is bubbling in his veins and he realizes he stopped breathing when it stutters out of his lungs in little stop-skips. 

"Do you dream, doc?" 

"Yes," Derek says simply. "Most people do." His words are measured, chosen carefully, but honest. 

Stiles hmm's in response, watching him through eyes at half-mast and body loose and relaxed. Derek fights the urge to squirm, feeling the creeping tendrils of unease bloom in his stomach. He can't believe for a second the questions are going to be that easy. 

"And yourself? What do you dream of?" 

Stiles chuckles, low and almost fond, curling back so he's sitting upright once more. 

"Oh, so much, big guy." He makes a small soft tsk at the back of his teeth, gaze traveling the room. "Where to start," he murmurs. "I dreamt of a basement recently. With a table in the center and I was lying on it. All strapped down with leather cuffs and chains. What do you think, doc? Secret fetish or just a result of being locked away in this place." He gazes up in exaggerated thoughtfulness. 

"What do you think it means?" 

"Nuh-uh," Stiles scolds, waving a finger at him like a naughty child. "Have to wait your turn." He snaps the finger he's pointing at Derek, crack loud in the silence as one side of his mouth tick upward, all mischief and almost mean. 

Derek nods once, grin tugging at the corners of his own lips. 

"Fair enough." He indicates with his pen for Stiles to continue. 

"Tit for tat, doc. I showed you mine. What do you dream of?" Stiles leans forward, attention focused solely on Derek with an unnerving intensity. He suppresses a shiver. 

He holds Stiles' gaze, refusing to drop it even as his mind fills with flames and endless hallways. He swallows a suddenly dry throat, sees Stiles' gaze drop at the action and wonders briefly if it's in calculation or interest. Doesn't matter, he reminds himself, neither affect treatment. 

The thought brings him back, reminds him why he's there playing games with a mad man. The steady tapping of his pen against his patient folder draws his attention to the nervous habit and he blushes, deep and hot at the tell. He fights the urge to clear his throat.

"I dream of my family," he says at last. It's not a lie, not really. "When they were alive." His parent's murder is public knowledge, brought up in the news to this day whenever the name Hale is mentioned. And considering Peter's penchant for the tabloids, it's more often than he'd like. If Stiles had missed it for whatever reason, it's not something Derek isn't used to his patients knowing about him, something he's not taken precautions against being turned into a weapon against him. 

"That's not near enough, " Stiles scolds, leaning back until his forearms rest against the edge of the table. "Devil's in the details, you know?" 

It's Derek's turn to tilt his head in thought, gaze dropping away as he leans forward onto the table. "Memories mostly. Family dinners or just talking with them. Except they are usually not things that actually happened." He stops himself from going further, explaining dreams of arguments that never were, or meals they never took. Of waking up angry at people long gone for something they had no control over.

"My question," Derek says quickly, tearing his gaze over to assessing one before him. "Tell me about your most prominent childhood memory." 

"Oh you don't want to hear about that," Stiles scoffs, head falling back onto the chair behind him with a dismissive snort. 

"I don't?" 

"The past is the past, all dead and dusty. I know how all you doctor types like to make up theories about not getting enough hugs from mommy and daddy, but let's be truthful here. You don't really care about whether or not I was molested by a funny uncle, no no no." He sits up with a sudden grin, half mischievous little boy half too knowing adult. "What you really want to know is this: What's going to happen next?" 

"I do?" 

Derek leans back, studying the man before him, not sure where this is going nor sure that he wants to know. It's possible Stiles is referring to some plan for the future, and that's a job for the police. He's supposed to diagnose and treat. On the other hand, it's the facility's policy to share with the authorities any information about upcoming crimes. 

"Mmm-hmm." Stiles' fingers begin tracing patterns on the table top as he watches Derek, leaning forward until his wrists are loose in their chains. "That's far more interesting, let me tell you." 

"Alright I'll bite," Derek replies ignoring Stiles' snort and deadpanned 'I bet you do,' "What's going to happen next?" 

Stiles' grin is practically beaming, his shoulders squaring as his spins straightens, his fingers drumming faster and faster on the metal table top until it's just a blur of soft sound and movement. 

"Fireworks, doc. Big and beautiful. But is there any other kind? And impossible to miss, lighting up half the city, and not the better half. Because really, what's the point if people don't see?" 

Derek's arms cross over his chest, uncomfortable, angry, and oddly disappointed. He can't even be sure what exactly it is that Stiles is trying to say, or why this possible threat upsets him so much, but it can't be good. 

"People could get hurt," he grits before he can think better of it. 

Amber eyes roll, Stiles' entire body slumping back his chair. 

"Yeah, yeah," he dismisses, "you sound like Scott." He looks at Derek, suddenly dismissive and cold. "You're getting boring, old man. Predictable." He rolls the last word off his tongue like it's a beneath him. Derek fights the flush that threatens to rise, focuses on pushing down his anger. 

"That may be, although you've only known me a day so who's to say? But," he says carefully, keeping his temper under wraps. It's unprofessional and can cut off communication with a patient, he reminds himself. "I'm a doctor. It's my job to think about the well being of other people." 

"No," Stiles says like he's correcting a child, "your job is think about the well being of your patients. All those little people out there," his head jerks towards one of the walls, "they aren't your concern." He pauses, gazes suddenly assessing, studying Derek with that unnerving focus he's shown on occasion. When he continues his voice is firm and without his previous annoyance. "I am your focus right now." He grins, harsh and cold. "Don't forget, it's all about me." 

Stiles cocks his head, eyes going half-mast and distant, fingers taking up their drumming once more. Derek hadn't noticed they'd stopped, but he does notice the soft, thoughtful look that crosses Stiles' features. "Am I you're primary patient? Or are there others?" He makes a noise of disapproval. "Don't tell me you're seeing others, doc." 

"I have other patients." He keeps his voice firm, gaze steady. 

Stiles gasps, loud and over the top with his eyes comically wide. 

"And here I thought we had something special!" 

"You mentioned a 'Scott,'" Derek says in lieu of replying. "He a friend? Boyfriend, perhaps?" 

"Now now, Dere-Bear, no need to get jealous. He's got nothing on those eyebrows of doom. Then again," Stiles looks away with a sniff, "you are seeing others." 

"Are the mood swings deliberate or are you just fucking with me?" The words are only half planned, unprofessional, but he can't regret them. Needs to cut through the bullshit. And he needs to _know_.

Stiles blinks at him, eyes widening in genuine surprise before a new grin spreads across his face, wide and real and utterly breathtaking. 

They stare at each other for a span of seconds, the moment stretching out until Derek can almost feel it buzz between them. Vibrating until his own pulse is thrumming in time through his veins. 

"Time's up, doc." 

The guard bangs out on the door before Derek can reply. He takes in a ragged breath, realizes he'd been holding it and glances at the clock, but sure enough an hour has passed. 

"Until next time," Derek says carefully, pushing away from the table and trying to ignore the pounding of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hales are essentially the Waynes of this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some familiar faces make an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized way too late that I should have had these sort of paired with each chapter. Or at least separated out between sessions with Derek and Stiles. But at the last minute I added them all into one chapter and then posted them without really stopping to consider it and now I'm regretting it.

Derek reports the fireworks comment to his superiors before leaving for the day. Despite what Stiles said it is part of Derek's job to turn in possible threats. 

Dr. Morrell assures him she'll pass on the report to the police. 

"It probably won't be enough, " she informs him, "but they'll know to keep an eye out just in case. Did you find out about his name?" 

"Not yet," Derek replies. "He finds the admission questions boring." 

"And the 'Sheriff'?" 

He tries not to wince. "We haven't gotten to that yet. Still building repoire." 

She hmm's at him, face impassive. "I expect a full report at the end of the month, Hale. Don't disappoint." 

He nods in assurance. 

"Don't work late tonight," she adds with a dismissive wave over her shoulder. "Take the time to enjoy your weekend." 

Derek gives one last nod before leaving her office. His own office is on the other side of the hospital and he has a pile of paperwork to get caught up on and one more therapy session with one of his more established patients. It's going to be a long evening. 

\- 

"Got yourself a hot one," Peter says, causing Derek to whip around and stare at his uncle. He hadn't heard the man come in. 

"You're not supposed to be reading my files." 

"But you make it so easy." Peter's grin is all teeth, eyes seeming to flash in the full moon's light streaming through the large windows in the study. 

The Hale Fire, as it was named in the papers some ten plus years ago, hadn't touched this part of the manor. And Derek would have left the other half a burnt crisp as a reminder of all he'd lost and his own stupidity if Laura hadn't insisted they rebuild. _Have to show the community the Hales aren't broken,_ she'd say ruffling his hair or straightening his tie. Before his growth spurt and his ornery teens turned into surly-twenties. 

Derek, who isn't supposed to be taking patient files home with him - being the current head of the wealthiest family in the city does have it's advantages - stalks over to the desk where he'd last left Stiles' folder. 

Nothing looks moved, but it's impossible to tell if Peter's bluffing or not. 

"'An easily bored sociopath with a high IQ and focus issues?' You sound like every other quack out there with a psych degree. Come on, nephew, tell me you're better than that." Peter lounges against an overly stuffed, and probably overly expensive, couch. 

Derek doesn't say anything, still flipping through his notes. It's not so simple, _Stiles_ is not so simple. He just can't put his finger on why yet. 

"I need more time with him." 

"Really?" Peter says, gazing steadily at Derek as if he said something particularly interesting. 

"A proper diagnosis can't be made over just two sessions." He doesn't mean to sound defensive, the words taking on a life of their own upon leaving his lips. 

"I'm sure." 

Derek shuts the folder with a snap, covering up a laughing pair of eyes that seem to mock him from the attached photo. 

"When do you see him again?" Peter's trying for casual, something he's never been able to pull off successfully even before the fire and his subsequent hospitalization. 

"Monday afternoon," Derek answers reluctantly. He doesn't know what Peter's thinking, doesn't want too, but it's never good to have so much of his uncle's attention. 

"I see." Peter turns with an abrupt mood change, all smiles and joyful air and he stands without fanfare. "I wish the two of you nothing but happiness." 

Derek gives his uncle the only response that statement deserved, a steady glare as Peter turns to walk out, calling out over his shoulder, "Give Stiles my love." 

\- 

Derek's first patient Monday morning, a manic-depressive who's lack of empathy and obsession with drowning lead to string of bodies found around the city, breaks down during their appointment, shouting about justice and his right defend himself until he has to be dragged out and sedated by the guards. 

"Well this is certainly a step back," Dr. Lehey says after getting the patient comfortably strapped down. 

"It was expected," Derek admits. "We made a break through recently." It came a little earlier than Derek anticipated, but these things rarely stuck to any sort of regular schedule. 

"Still," Isaac adds as he begins his charting, "it's not good for his mental state to have to sedate him every few months. Not with his..." He makes a gesture towards his neck. 

Derek glares at the medical doctor, although Isaac isn't exactly wrong in his suggestion. 

"You let me worry about the mental health of my patient. Besides," he adds, looking down the row of hospital beds at the young man currently lying half-out of it on his cot, "Mr. Daehler preferred his victims aware when he drowned them. He used a chemical paralytic, not a sedative." 

"Right right," Isaac says, looking up at him from his desk, "he just paralyzed them from the neck down." 

"I really shouldn't be telling you so much about my patients." 

Isaac grins at him. "It's all part of the need to know. Don't want to mentally scar anyone more than necessary." 

Derek refrains from rolling his eyes. Across the room he can barely see the rise and fall of Matt's chest, the blurred swatch of dark hair against the flat pillow the medical wing provides. 

"Did you do the assessment on Stiles?" He hadn't realized he was going to ask before the question was already out and hanging in the air. He'd spent his weekends looking over the file, practically memorizing every word trying to get a better grasp on his patient. 

"Hmm? No, not personally." He shakes his head, not looking up from his computer screen. "I think that was Lydia. Dr. Martin," he adds when Derek gives him a blank look. "She's PRN. They mostly just call her when no one else is available." 

Derek knew, logically, that Isaac wasn’t the only medical doctor on staff. The man would never get a break if he was, not with the nature of their patients. The M.Ds at Eichen patched up more staff than inmates, but Derek hasn't met any other medical doctor besides the director, Deaton, and the night MD Dr. Vandenburg who he sometimes crosses paths with during shift change. 

"Haven't met her," Derek says. 

"I don’t expect you will," Isaac replies. Derek raises on eyebrow in question and Isaac shrugs. "Woman's a genius. Fresh out of med school, already has a masters in some mathematical thing," he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, "and only here to make some extra cash. From what I hear, she's already got a dozen offers from hospitals all over the country. Which most likely pay even better than here. Deaton keeps going on about how lucky we are that she chose to do her residency here." 

Derek tries to look suitably impressed, but he's not exactly surprised. People don't come to Eichen House because they want to make a difference. Some delusional souls might in the beginning, but their patients didn't typically get better and return to society. They were a prison mixed with a psych hospital and people worked there for one of three reasons: they wanted fame, the pay and benefits were higher than every other hospital in Beacon Hills, or they genuinely liked the work. 

"You looked over his file though? Stiles' I mean." 

Isaac looks up at him blankly for a moment before nodding. 

"Yeah. Did you not get a copy of the report?" 

"I did, but I wanted to get your opinion." 

Isaac shrugs. "Don’t have much of one. Crazy spastic when they brought him in. They had to lock him away in the isolation room until he calmed down enough to stop trying to kill the orderlies when they cam in. Took to Dr. Martin though. Nurses said he kept hitting on her." 

Something hot and angry flashes through Derek, twisting to the left of his heart, his hands fisting and jaw clenching before he can get control of the emotion. He shoves it down, pushing away the irrational flair of possessiveness. 

"Thanks," he manages to grunt out before leaving the medical area. He had nearly an hour to kill before his next appointment, _Stiles'_ appointment, and Eichen had a workout room thanks entirely to a Hale family donation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some altering and at this point my muse went "oh look, plot." But I'm a stubborn bitch and dug my heals in. Alas, my muse takes after me and fought back and now there is a thread of actual plot connecting these chapters.
> 
> I love Creepy Uncle Peter in all his never-know-what-he's-up-to glory, and his vague "is he hitting on yet _another_ teenager" moments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek makes a break through...he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nano is taking all of my writing energy, to the point I don't even feel like doing final edits before posting a chapter of this. But I did.
> 
> NOTE: This has been edited from the first time I posted it. It was only a few hours later, but I added a scene.

It's been a month since the police brought Stiles in. Two weeks since Dr. Morrell set Derek onto the task of fishing for information on their newest patient's hint of a possible threat on the city, and digging, rather uselessly, in Derek's opinion, into Stiles' name. A couple of the arresting officers having dubbed Stiles 'Sheriff' which only seemed to upset his patient for reasons he refused to discuss. 

More often than not Stiles would manage to get Derek onto a different topic, pulling him into conversations about right and wrong, the psychology behind power plays, or exchanging witty banter and sarcastic commentary, until the hour was up and Derek was left with nothing to show his supervisor. 

Stiles folder is looking worryingly thin, diagnoses tossed aside for new just as unlikely ones. It would rankle Derek more if he didn't feel like he was making progress. Or if the conversations Stiles dragged him into weren't so interesting. His superiors didn't always agree. 

_"Perhaps you aren't the best fit for him," Dr. Morrell says in that steady way of her's, eyes slightly narrowed and Derek fights the urge to snarl back a protest. "I'm sure one of the other doctors wou-"_

_"We're fine," he cuts in gruffly. His hands are sweating, jaw attempting to clench as the desire to snap at his boss to mind her own damn business builds. "It's taken time but I've built a repport. He'll listen to me." It tastes like a lie, he's not sure why. Not sure he cares if he is at this point._

He redoubles his efforts at their next few meetings. But Stiles swung wildly between blatantly ignoring him when asked directly to snarking angrily whenever Derek would try and slip the topic in. It takes five sessions before Derek thinks of trying something new. 

He walks into his last appointment of the day to find Stiles' head is bent forward, chin resting against his collar. Derek fights a sigh of resignation upon the sight. He's taken to this position of late, a stubborn bit of display forewarning the mindset he's in. It'll be a maddening game of hide and seek for answers today. 

"I've been meaning to ask," Stiles says the moment Derek pulls out his chair, head still down and eyes closed. "What's with the camera?" 

He glances in the corner, where the telltale red dot blinks at them. "That's always been there." He sets his folder off to the side, ignoring it for now. "There's no audio. Our sessions are completely confidential." 

"Not that one," Stiles says with a roll of his neck. He relaxes back until his shoulders press into the metal chair, bound hands resting in his lap. It makes Derek nervous for some reason. "The one your goons put up in my room." His voice is soft, relaxed and slightly dangerous in a way Derek can't put his finger on. 

"You talk in your sleep," he replies in a bid of honesty. Stiles' no lying rule is still in place. Derek can't say he's followed it to the letter, but he's been fairly reluctant to break it fully. 

The tapes hadn't shown much, beyond that Stiles stayed awake most nights, sitting on the side of the bed and staring at the wall with an unseeing gaze. And when he did sleep he wasn't still, tossing and turning, grasping at the edges of his mattress and twisting the sheet in his hands, as if even his dreams couldn't hold his attention. 

Stiles hmm's, one corner of his mouth ticking up and eyes opening to half-mast like they're guarding secrets. 

"You know," he says moving forward until he's resting most of his weight against his elbows, "you can always ask, doctor. Isn't that what you're hear for? To ask." He raises a brow, head tilting to the side slowly until the lighting hits him at an angle that cast shadows in the hallows of his cheeks and under his eyes. It's chilling, and done with such a deliberate air as to make Derek feel like he missed a step. 

"When you're willing to answer that is," he responds without thought. 

There's a pause, stretched and taunt between them before Stiles laughs, that fully body one that curves his back and makes Derek stare even as he knows he shouldn't. 

"I like you, doc," Stiles says as he relaxes back, fingers drawing patterns where they rest on the table top. Derek flushes, fighting the pleased curve of his lips. "You fight for what's yours. That's why we're such a _good fit_." 

He goes cold, blood rushing in his ears and mouth going dry. 

"What?" He studies Stiles, takes in the cruel edges in the corners of his mouth, the gleam in the golden peek of his eyes. 

Derek shakes off the odd moment, clearing his throat as he glances down at the folder beside him. He hesitates, hand not-quite reaching for it. He doesn't want to open it, he realizes. Doesn't want to go over questions Stiles won't answer, stir aggravation where now there's tentative companionship. 

He looks up, finds Stiles turned to face the wall, exposing the taunt tendons under pale skin and throwing into relief the sharp lines of his jaw. 

There's a shake in the middle of the breath he takes, gaze dragging slightly before he brings himself back to center. 

"My boss," he begins slowly, thoughts a conflicting jumble, "wants me to find out what you meant by the fireworks comment from a couple weeks ago. As well as a few other things." 

Stiles faces him once more, expression vacant and eyes once more at half-mast. He hmm's under his breath, lacing his fingers together before him and leaning forward slowly, steadily, giving time for Derek to move back if he wants. He doesn't. 

"And what do you want, doc?" Stiles says finally, only the smallest hint of a laugh dancing just under. 

Derek's mind goes blank, stuttering and stopping over thoughts too thin to recognize, too wrong to acknowledge. 

_"Answers vary,"_ Stiles said at their last meeting, leaning forward in that enticing way of his. _"The truth is a matter of perception, and you,_ Derek." His breath caught in his throat, something he refused to put a name to twisting low and warm in his gut. _"You are practically blind."_

"I want," he begins slowly, pausing to lick suddenly dry lips, "I want to see." 

The grin on Stiles' face almost splits it in two. 

\- 

His dinner is still warm when he gets home, a surprise because Boyd rarely keeps his plate anything less than room temperature if he's so much as half an hour late.

For generations the Boyds had worked in various capacities for the Hales, until the fire that had devastated his family and their's. Despite Vernon not technically being an employee, he still managed to cook most of Derek's meals. A fact Peter liked to gripe about since there was never a plate made for him. 

"Not out with Erica?" 

"She has to work."

Derek frowned, thinking she had the day shift when he met her for coffee that morning. It's possible she had come in early to just to see him, although unlikely. They typically cross paths at some point when both at work and while she didn't always have guard duty on his rooms, her particular skills did often put her with the more violent patients, her boss seemed to cater to her whims when it came to her assigned area. But Derek supposes his roster had been on the calmer side lately, in large part due to Deucalion's escape just two days before. Kali, while not his patient, was always less violent when she knew her boss was free and The Darach was better focused when not under the same roof as the man who scarred her. 

They ate the rest of their meal in compatible silence. Or rather Derek ate while Boyd drank hot tea out of one of Derek's mug. 

There were times when Derek found Vernon's steady silence a comforting welcome, most of the time in fact. Tonight was not one of those times. 

His thoughts swirled in a confusing mass questions and unsurity, amplified by the rooms near silence. 

It wasn't like he even did anything, he reminds himself. He's treating a patient, and as Stiles psychologist he has the final say in the man's treatment, in what questions are asked and what is said between them. 

"You've got you angry face on," Boyd says, cutting through the noise in his head. 

"I've got an angry face?" 

He shrugs in response, taking another sip of tea. 

"Got a lot on my mind," Derek responds after a moment, turning back to his meal. 

"You go on," he says when he sees Boyd's empty cup, "I'll clean up." 

Vernon has his own room in the Hale House, the quirky name people call the sprawling manor that's been in his family for generations, but Boyd's family, in a time when Derek was sorely lacking in just that. It's been just him and Peter for over a year now, known each other all of Derek's life and somehow suddenly strangers, and sometimes Derek forgets what it was like to have people he was comfortable around. 

He washes the dishes by hand before taking his files up to his room, telling himself that he need to look over his past notes. It's even possibly true. 

It's after two am before he turns in for the night and the only file he's looked at is the one for his newest patient. That should worry him more. A lot of things should probably worry Derek more. 

-

"You said at our last session that all I'd have to do is ask. Did you mean that?" 

Stiles shrugs in a jerky gesture. He's been unable to keep still since Derek came in, fingers twisting around each other when they're not drumming against the table, gaze darting around them room like he's seeing things beyond Derek's scope. "Is this the part where you ask me about my kinks?" Stiles asks with flex of his arms, exposing his wrists and curl of his fingers over his palms. 

"If you want," Derek says slowly, keeping his gaze on Stiles, watching the strange tilting of his head as his breathing switches patterns and the twitch along his cheek as his leg begins bouncing with a rattle of chains. That wasn't were he was going, but Stiles is in a new mood today, one Derek hasn't seen in him yet, and adjustments need to be made. 

"You know the funny thing about submission and dominance, doc?" 

He looks almost serious a moment, leaning back at an angle in his chair like they are having a casual conversation over dinner, instead of in a psyche house with Stiles bound hand and foot to a reinforced table, and Derek takes a moment to absorb the delusion before answering. 

"That it's all about the illusion of power?" He taps his pen against the table, a small smile forming as Stiles turns his attention fully to him for the first time since he sat down. 

"You been holdin' out on me," Stiles says with a flash of teeth, leaning forward suddenly, head tilted up with a twitch of his shoulders. And Derek almost expects a question on his sex life, prying into his types of partners or tastes in bed. "You have a secret side to you, doc? Because as someone under your care," he says the last word carefully, slightly drawn out and with a gleaming look aimed at Derek, "I should get a warning." 

Stiles leans back abruptly, hitting the chair with a hard sound and Derek's hands jerk towards him as if to stop him, eyes widening and a stab of worry shooting through his chest. But Stiles is already looking away, attention drawn to the side and lips slightly pursed in thought. 

"Illusion," Stiles says before Derek can do more than open his mouth to reply. "That's a good word for it, because that's all the dominate has. Illusion of power." He smirks suddenly, looking back at Derek through narrowed eyes, head tilting to the side. 

"Because the submissive gives it to him," Derek adds. "This giving of power is the real show of power." 

"No," Stiles corrects, looking down, "because the submissive makes the boundaries. He draws the lines and dominate has to play within them. It makes him feel like he has all the power." He looks up, pinning Derek with his warm gaze. "He may even believe he actually does. And the submissive lets him, because he likes to give him that illusion, likes to let him play make believe." He looks away suddenly, eyebrows drawn and frowning for the first time. It twists something inside Derek. "But it can't last." 

"Nothing lasts," Derek says before he can think better of it. 

"No," Stiles says slowly, "it doesn't, does it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually sort of cut and paste of several different chapters/attempts at chapters, none of which I liked so I finally just said "screw it" and cut out the parts I didn't like and then edited what was left into one unit. 
> 
> Stiles is saying so much to our dear confused Derek, but Derek will always be a master of Fail and weird people-pleasing issues mixed with a heavy dose of "I don't trust anyone"-itis and doesn't pick up on 90% of what Stiles is putting down. Doesn't mean it's not burying it's way into his subconscious for his mind to think on when he's not paying attention. You can't avoid Stiles!logic forever. 
> 
> I didn't mean to make Morrell a kind of bad guy in this, she's just doing her job I swear!, but Derek is nice and torn between doing his job and following Stiles down the gray-morality rabbit hole.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My girl Erica is here!

Derek checked his work e-mail on his way to the hospital the next morning to find his schedule had been altered. His appointment with Stiles was cancelled, citing the latest riot in the general population common room, in which Stiles had recently been given privileges to. Apparently, Stiles was named the instigator and given a day in isolation for a first-time offense. Their regular scheduled appointment would begin the following day. 

There was also a post script tagged at the bottom, Gerald Argent was back in lock up. 

"Want me to accidentally stab him?" Erica asks without greeting as she follows Derek into his office and drops herself down in a chair. 

"We don't stab patients," Derek replies. 

She snorts. "Oh please, whole family is rotten. That is one gene pool that needs draining." 

"They aren't all bad. I hear his son turned vigilante. Joined one of the hero groups in France." 

"One good apple doesn't excuse a bad bushel." 

"Don't you have rounds?" Derek asks instead of replying. 

She shrugs noncommittally. 

He sets his stuff down, opening his filing cabinet and pulls out the three he'll need for the day without looking at Erica. 

"Don't do it," he says simply. She pouting when turns to look at her. "He's not responsible for Kate's actions." 

Erica tells him without words how much she considers that bullshit. 

"Besides," he adds, "Lehey says he's dying. They've moved him into medical permanently." 

Erica snorts and props her feet up on another chair. "Gettin' off easy." 

Derek doesn't say anything, just watches Erica fidget in her seat as he piles the folders neatly onto his desk. He checks the time, has twenty minutes before his session with The Darach, he looks back at Erica with raised brows. 

"What?" 

He sits back, looks at her a moment longer before deliberately resting his chin on his hands. 

"Don’t try and psycho-analyze me right now," she snaps without any real heat. "You've got your own problems and you're not going to deflect onto mine." 

"Erica," he says, both a warning and a request. 

She rolls her eyes, looking away before shrugging with a sigh like she's doing him some huge favor by talking to him. 

"A couple of cousins are butting heads. I'm kind of stuck in the middle." 

Derek's eyebrows draw together in confusion. 

"I didn't-" he cuts himself off. "You don't usually talk about your family." 

Erica snorts but her smile holds a warm affection. 

"It's not exactly big family drama. But it is something I can't afford to take sides on." Her smile drops, eyes darkening. "I'm closer to one, but he doesn't know what he's getting into and should really butt out. But the other-" she sighs, looking away and sagging her shoulders, "-I love his crazy ass but he's not making things easy." 

"You want advice?" 

It's never a sure thing with Erica. Derek doesn't have a lot of female friends, doesn't have a lot of friends at all actually, but Laura and Erica were the same in that they typically just wanted him to just listen to their problems. Which works out well because his advice usually sucks. 

"Yeah, actually," Erica says thoughtfully, "I think I do." 

"Stay out of it." 

She smiles at him, all teeth and sharp edges, but the softness in her gaze reminds him of when they met. Before she tamed her hair or found an acne cream that actually worked on her skin. When she looked at him like he was going to save her all because he offered to pay for her procedure. 

"Thanks, bossman." 

She pushes herself to standing, winking at him as she turns to head out the door. 

"I'm not your boss," he automatically calls after her. 

\- 

"Look who's back!" Stiles calls, cocking his head to the side as Derek enters the room. "And here I thought you didn't care. Having abandoned me to my lonesome and all." 

"Our last appointment was canceled," Derek reminds him as he sits. "I didn't make that call." 

Derek had gone to Dr. Morell's office with the intention of arguing that a disrupt in routine would only further hinder Stiles' recovery only to end up in a ten-minute lecture on how Derek needed to stay on task of finding the information she'd assigned him. The entire exchange left him feeling wrong footed for reasons he can't name. 

"Sure you didn't." 

He doesn't bother to correct him, just watches as Stiles shifts his shoulders in his newly reapplied straight jacket. 

"Admit it, you missed me." The grin on Stiles' face is far too knowing, and Derek chooses to ignore it, opening up his patient's folder and looking over the notes from last session. 

"You did," Stiles breathes, eyes wide in something Derek refuses to translate as awe. 

"I was hoping we could get back-" 

"No time for that, doc," Stiles says with an exaggerated wiggle as he leans forward. 

"Really?" Derek counters. "Because from where I'm sitting we have all the time in the world." 

Stiles grins, close lipped and pleased. 

"Really, Derek?" Stiles asks with a tilt of his head, and heat blooms low once more at the sound of his name. "What is the break-out average on this place again?" 

Derek's breath catches painfully, something like loss twisting in his chest and he'd like to say it's over the idea of one of his patients escaping. Wants to claim the taste of desperation on his tongue has to do with the thought of laws being broken and people getting hurt, but he'd grown numb to that long ago. Eichen House can no more hold their inmates than the prison can. They have surprisingly poor security in Beacon Hills. 

"You planning a break out?" Dere asks through a suddenly dry throat. 

Stiles snorts, rolling his eyes upward a moment as he tilts his shoulders to one side in a smooth slide against his chair. 

"Your stupidity astounds me sometimes," he says not bothering to hide the affection in the words, and Derek can't fight the relief coursing through him. 

He hadn't admitted it to himself at the time, but those silences, prickled more than they should've, even more than the biting comments. The utter lack of acknowledgment left him feeling like he lost something he hadn't known was in his grasp. And the brief thought of losing it once more left him feel short winded. 

It wasn't something he should be feeling over a patient. But neither is this warm happiness blooming in his chest over a bit of teasing affection. 

"Considering your logic, I'd say I'm not doing half-bad." He gives up the fight, letting a small grin stretch across his face. "Did you have something particular in mind you wanted to discuss, or are you just avoiding whatever topic I bring up?" And if the words are more teasing than he intended, so be it. 

"If you could refrain for the level of stupid your past questions held, I'd let you pick the topic," Stiles counters, but there's a detachment in his voice Derek hasn't heard since that first day. 

"That was my boss," he defends, unease coursing through him. 

"And you let her," Stiles counters, a touch of anger dancing along the edge of his jaw. He twists his body forward, edge of the table digging into his thin torso, bound arms brushing the top of the table. "And look at us now, big guy. One step forward, two steps back." He shakes his head in an exaggerated disappointment. 

"What do you want me to do? I mean," he adds quickly, shifting in his chair and feeling suddenly tongue-tied, "these sessions are here to benefit you. To help _you_. Some adjustments can be made." 

"'Adjustments?'" He laughs, a cruel chuckle as he cocks his head, letting the shadows play along his cheeks and drawing Derek's gaze to the cluster of moles where his jaw meets that long expanse of neck. 

"Within reason." 

"Of course," Stiles mocks. "Tell you what, doc," he adds with a twist of his upper back, shoulders dipping to one side in graceful move before jerking back, "one question. For your boss, and afterwards you do something for me. Won't even be against policy." His smile is a slow stretch of his lips, holding secrets in the dips and curves. "Much anyway." 

Derek wants to say "no" on principle. Knows he's lost most of the footing he'd set out to regain, but he finds himself licking suddenly dry lips, unable to break that shadowed gaze as he nods. 

Stiles smirks, back curling as he rolls up, head lolling to the side but his spine near straight. 

"Your question, Dr. Hale." There's a professional edge to his words that should make Derek feel better. It doesn't. 

"The threat to the city," he says after a small, thoughtful pause. "What more can you tell me about it?" 

Stiles rolls his eyes, teeth grinding together a moment as he slumps back into his chair. 

"Or your name," Derek says quickly. "Either one will get her to stop hounding my ass." It comes out more of a grumble, fingers knocking the end of the pen against the table a moment. 

"And it's such a nice ass." 

He lets out a bark of laughter before he can stop himself, one hand coming up to press the side against his lips as he swallows the rest back down. 

He looks up to find Stiles studying him, gaze at half-mast and face carefully blank before he licks his lips and looks away, something pleased and happy curling in the corner of Stiles' mouth before he settles it back down into a neutral line. 

"Stiles is a family name," he says finally, voice devoid of inflection. "Picked it when I was seven." 

Derek reaches for the file, quickly opening it and writing down the new information. He makes a mental note throw in a few hints about childhood trauma, maybe an unhealthy attachment to his mother. His pen pauses on the page, waiting for the rush of guilt over the planned lie. It doesn't come. 

"And your favor?" he asks, closing the file once more. 

"I have this itch." He twitches his shoulders back and forth, wiggling slightly at the end, and Derek doesn't know whether to laugh or stare. "It's right between the shoulder blades. Come on, doc. Scratch it for me." Stiles gives him that dark grin of his, the one laced with sharp edge of madness. 

"I-" Physical contact is against policy, and until now Derek hasn't actually broken any rules. 

He studies Stiles carefully for a long moment before glancing at the clock. 

"You got plenty of time," Stiles says with another twitchy shimmer. "I could tell you 'no one's going to know,' but there's a camera and you're not as big of an idiot as you act." 

"Thanks," Derek says sarcastically as he pushes his chair back and slowly starts to make his way around the table. 

He doesn't even pause as he reaches Stiles' side, one hand coming up, fingers already curled, to scratch the spot between Stiles' shoulder blades. He has to dig hard to get through the thick, rough material of the jacket. 

Stiles doesn't make any obscene noises. No groans or double-entendres, but Derek still feels warmth shoot through him and a hyper awareness of where his fingertips are pressed against his patient. 

Stiles looks at him when he pulls away, saying with complete sincerity, "Thank you, Derek."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the bits I was loathed to cut out of the last chapter got wiggled into this one. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scratch is a slippery slope. One Derek isn't sure he wants to stop himself from sliding. Then the switch gets flipped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erhm, I'm back?

"We don't need that," Derek says to the guard, standing just inside the door to the appointment room two days later. He indicates to where Stiles is sitting, straight jacket on and shackles in place. 

The guard hesitates. "The orders state that Mr. Stiles be jacketed any time that he's outside of his cell." 

"And I'm his doctor," Derek insists. 

"Sir-" 

"I only ask nicely once." 

The guard ducks his head as he hurries past Derek. He pauses once he reaches Stiles' side, glancing at the jacket then at Derek once more. 

"I'm supposed to have at least two people on him when he's being unrestrained." 

Derek gives him his hard look, staring a beat too long before slowly looking at Stiles. 

"Try not to stab the guard when he removes the jacket." 

"No promises." Stiles grin is all teeth and silent laughter. 

Derek watches with sharp eyes as the guard fumbles over straps and chains, working the jacket off in short jerks and awkward tugs. 

He looks at Derek when it comes to the cuffs, holding the chain connecting to Stiles' ankle shackles to the wrists. Derek raises an impatient brow. The cuffs are hurriedly applied, looped through the metal bar atop the table. 

Derek heads towards his chair, pausing once he reaches it to look at the guard still standing there. 

"What are you still doing here?" he snaps. 

"Sorry, sir," the guard says hurriedly before turning back to the door and rushing out and Derek can't stop the pleased little grin from curling up the corners of his lips, feeling something relax in him that he hadn't realized was wound up. 

Stiles lets out a groan, low and obscene as he stretches his back, newly freed hand reaching up to scratch at the end of his nose. 

"Did you have a topic you wanted to discuss today?" Derek begins as he sits down. He had spent the last two evenings going over Stiles' file, an obsessive habit of late, only this time he began filling in the blanks with guesses and follow up questions. He even wrote up a truly insightful, if mostly false, report on Stiles' childhood. Dr. Morrell was extremely pleased. Peter was disturbingly amused. 

"You've been good, doc," Stiles says, grinning as he slowly leans forward, chains clinking against the table, "and I promised you answers if you asked. Come on, doctor, ask." 

He pauses a second, having thought that little game was done, before he nods and picks up Stiles' file, starting to place it before him. 

"Nuh-uh," Stiles scolds. "You know better than that. I'm not here to cater that boss-bitch of yours. What do _you_ want to know?" 

Derek blinks, oddly pleased. He slowly puts the folder to one side, looking at Stiles as he runs through his list of usual questions. He discards most of them as he realizes he just doesn't care about the answers. 

"Whose Scott?" he asks finally, placing the pen down on top of the file and leaning forward until the edge of the table barely presses into the front of his dress shirt and doctor's coat. 

Stiles laughs, head thrown back and spine curving in a distracting way and Derek's heart soars for a moment, grin tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Stiles looks back at him, smile still creasing his cheeks. "Derek, Derek, _Der-ek._ " He cracks his teeth on the last rendition of his name, shifting his lower back in a graceless curve as he leans forward a bit. "Scotty's my family, in ways much thicker than blood." He tilts his head in a manner reminiscent of a snake. "Do you know the original saying? How it truly goes?" 

"'The blood of the convent is thicker than the water of the womb,'" he quotes before licking his lips, gaze locked on the one before him. "Means the relationships we choose are stronger than the one's we're born with." 

"Hmm, and what do you choose, doctor?" 

"I-" he looks down, clearing his throat before looking back at Stiles. "I think I'm supposed to be asking the questions this time." He keeps his voice light, almost teasing. 

Stiles smiles, looking for all the world like he's won something as he straightens in his chair once more. His fingers drag distractingly against the metal table top. 

"By all means, _doctor._ You're the one in charge here." His tone is mocking, eyes dancing with laughter, and Derek can't shake the feeling that Stiles knew the answer before he asked. 

"Explain to me about the riot," Derek says, focusing back on the task at hand. 

Stiles tilts his head, still smiling slightly to himself like there's a joke in there somewhere. "What's there to say, doc? What do you want to know?" 

"What happened to set you off?" 

"Hmm, not much of a tale," he says quietly, looking away a moment before flicking it back to Derek and pinning it there. He leans forward in a controlled move until they are close enough for Derek to pick out the dark imperfections in that whiskey colored gaze, something pleasant humming under the surface as he faintly feels the warmth radiating from Stiles' skin. "I met someone I... disagreed with. We played a little game to work out our differences." He grins, wide and manic, teeth gleaming at him in the low, overhead light. 

"Well that little game cost us a session," Derek responds, voice echoing Stiles' low tone, going quiet and intimate between them, traces of a soft chide lacing through but not saturating. 

"Did it now?" And it could Derek's imagination, but Stiles looks displeased, brows furrowed and the corners of his mouth tightening. He tries to ignore the pleasant chills skipping down his spine. "Your...boss' doing?" 

"Violent outbursts in a common area earn a night in isolation. Normally," he adds - _confesses_ \- voice still low and gaze dropping down to where Stiles' shadow has merged with his own in fascination, "they'd send the patient's doctor in there for an extra session, find out what triggered the event, but she thought you'd be more inclined to obey if they kept me away." 

Stiles tsks, head rocking back and forth like a displeased parent. 

"We'll have to fix that." He rolls his shoulders, curling his head upward and bringing Derek's gaze back to his eyes, his voice dropping even lower, appealing in a way Derek hasn't let himself notice until now. "Won't we, Derek?" He's nodding before the words even register. 

Stiles leans back slowly, a smooth roll of his spine under the thin material of his shirt, smile full of dark triumph as he straightens. 

Derek swallows hard, blinking in the suddenly brighter room as he finally leans back. He's half out of his now cold chair, thoughts feeling lazy under the low hum still coursing through him. 

"Looks like our time is up for the day, doc," Stiles says, head tilting to the side as his grin softens into something nearing affection. The knock following echoes loudly, almost accusatory, to Derek's ears. 

"Until next time," Stiles says as Derek stands. "Oh, and, doc." He's suddenly all wide-eyes and manic giggles as the guards enter, "this next bit isn't on you." 

Derek frowns in confusion, mouth opening to ask for clarification when the first guard reaches Stiles' side and his head rears back. It connects to the guard's with a hard crack and too familiar crunch. And Derek has a mad moment where's he worries that Stiles is hurt, thinking about lacerations and hematomas under the skin, the probability of a broken nose, mixing with an irrational, _violent_ urge to lash out at the guard before he manages to wrench himself back under control. 

More security enters the room at a rush, Derek forcing his feet to take a step back as they quickly move to subdue his patient. 

"Tell your boss I don't respond well to negative reinforcement," Stiles calls over his shoulder, laughing as three guards drag him away. Blood is dripping down his chin, lines of red that leave bright spots on the concrete floor, and inside Derek determination hardens to steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a scene to this whole thing. Which I thought was going to affect this chapter, but turns out it didn't really beyond possibly making it a touch shorter. But considering this fic went from sitting all complete and pretty to now having this whole new scene added (and with it the need for further scenes to complete the new added subplot) most of chapters 7-10 are now sitting in chopped up pieces that need rearranging and polishing. 
> 
> Also, this fic will either now be roughly 12-15 chapters, or will have a part two. Depending on exactly how much I want to get into Stiles' world outside of Eichen and how Derek fits into it. What started out as one little part at the end is growing more and more complicated and really beginning to feel like it's own story.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, he thinks, no one can blame him. It's Newton's first law after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More new faces! Is there any character I don't love on this show and therefore won't gush about if given the opportunity? Well, I guess there is Jennifer/The Darach. And even then it's more like I'm mad they wrote her story so poorly. Or rather her and Derek's story so poorly. It's like they threw out actually building up their relationship for an interesting and well shot sex scene (which on it's own, was a great scene, but came after next to zero build up and seemed to have no really effect on their storyline as couple). And what was with that scene where she runs up, embraces him, and then walks away all sad with the wind artful blowing her hair and skirt? It made no sense. God, they missed a huge opportunity to turn their connection when they met into a real and meaningful thing and instead threw it away for a rushed relationship and cheap plot twist that spat in the face of Derek's past trauma (Kate anyone!?) and undermined Jennifer's potential to be a deeper, more interesting villain (if they had shown them actually building their relationship instead of just jumping into "clearly they care, look at this artful shot of her sad face" then that could have added so many layers to her). Plus, were any of us actually supposed to buy Derek having feelings for her? Maybe during the initial meet scene I sensed a connection, but after that it felt like a casual hook up and I didn't get his struggle with believing she was a bad guy at all. It didn't even seem like he struggled, it seemed more like everyone one else assumed he would struggle and reacted accordingly. Which left her side of it seeming like she was trying too hard to make him think there was a connection and therefore didn't care either.

Anger can be a cold thing, digging deeply inside, stabbing frozen roots into your bones and seeping ever deeper until it's in your very soul. He felt it with Kate and the fire and the way no one was _doing_ anything. This anger is still warm. Irrational and on the edge of sharp every time he thinks of the blood on the floor, the lines dripping steadily down Stiles' face. 

Derek pushes open the door leading to the medical wing. It's not been long since Stiles' outburst and while Eichen may have a rather lax outlook on the physical well-being of their more violent patients, they wouldn't have denied him treatment altogether. 

"Lahey," he greets, relief that it's Isaac behind the counter. They've been friends long enough he won't ask too many questions. Will be more willing to bend the rules and let Derek see Stiles before he's finished his mandatory "two hour cooling off period." Attacking a staff member is a bit different than attacking a fellow inmate, and Morrell already seems to be taking liberties with Stiles' treatment... 

"I'm here to check on a patient of mine. Stiles." 

"He's in with Dr. Martin. They're just back there." Isaac indications with his pen towards the private exam rooms and not even batting an eye at Derek's presence so soon after Stiles was brought in. Although he does spare one for Derek's disheveled hair. The near hour he'd been forced to take to go over the verbal report had been one of the longest of his life. 

Derek heads back without a word, belatedly realizing he should have said thanks as he rounds the corner into the hall. 

A single guard, one he doesn't recognize, is leaning casually against the wall. He straightens quickly when he sees Derek, a flush of panicked guilt infusing his cheeks with color. 

"Dr. Martin told me to wait down the hall," the guard says in a rush. "HIPPA laws." He tries and fails to give Derek a friendly smile, nervously shifting his feet and dropping his gaze before looking back up. 

Derek knows the protocol, had it pounded into his head enough times by his supervisors during his early days. Knows there's supposed to be two guards stationed within earshot or eyeline of any patient not currently in their cells. Knows that anyone as green as this kid seems to be should have not be left alone to guard a patient who has just exhibited a violent outburst. 

Derek knows all this and does nothing. He walks by the nervous guard and heads down the few more feet until he reaches the open door to the exam room and freezes. 

Dr. Martin's nose is wrinkled in displeasure, the lines of her face harsh in suppressed anger. The hissing words she's biting out too Stiles cut off with an abrupt press of her lips together and a harsh breath through her nose. The first flickers of protective defense licks at Derek's stomach until he sees Stiles' face. 

His patient is... enraptured. There's no other word for it. His eyes are glued to the redhead before him, lips curling in a blatant flirtatious manner, so different from the knife edged looks he sends Derek. Those teasing glances that balance precariously between threats and come on's, leaving thrills down his spine as he's edged ever closer to the unknown fate below. 

Dr. Martin is a beautiful woman. Poised and with an effortless confidence that Derek can only play at in cheap imitation. She's petite, even in her heels, with hair the color of coppery ginger and creamy skin that's so nearly without flaws as to be the closest a human being can get too perfection. Derek is suddenly, painfully aware of exactly how different he is from the woman before him. 

Something cracks and bleeds in his chest, crushing his lungs. Pain and regret and _grief_ spilling out and filling him up until he's choking on it. 

He wants to leave, to turn around and act like he never saw the scene before him. Forget the look on Stiles' face, the gleam in his eye as he watches Dr. Martin and go home to drown in liquor until he no longer feels the claws in his chest. Until he can berate himself in peace for being foolish enough to think himself special, that he alone had somehow met those impossible standards. 

Derek never realized how much Stiles didn't really see the others at Eichen, how much Derek had been the only one Stiles truly _looked_ at. Looked and saw and found worthy of his gaze, his attention. It seems like a slap, stinging and sudden, to have lost something he didn't even fully thought of as his. To miss it with an ache that's bone deep. 

He's just about willed his feet to turn when Stiles' awareness, detached and curious at the newcomer by the door, moves towards where Derek is standing in the hall. 

Something hot and sparking invades those too knowing eyes, eclipsing the flirting interest that was there just seconds before. Drowning it out until all that's left is Stiles' unnerving focus honed utterly and completely on him. His grin turns sharp, teasing with hints of violence and want, shattering that bit of interest he'd shown just previously until it's nothing but a fleeting whisper against the utter storm now brewing just under the surface. 

That overwhelming bleeding wound abruptly closes, the pain siphoning away under a heat and hunger that leaves Derek dizzy and focused all at once. His chest swells with it, breathe caught in his lungs and heart twisting in painfully pleasant ways. It's an mirror of the pain just before it, reflected in sharp negative colors, bringing with it the irrefutable knowledge of exactly how deep in he is as it snaps between them. 

Dr. Martin clears her throat delicately and his perfect moment of clarity, the wonderment and horror at this feeling blossoming inside him and tethering him to the mad man across the room is shattered, bringing him crashing back down to reality. 

_He is utterly fucked._ The thought swirls around his head until he manages to subdue it, placing it firmly to the side to deal with later, if at all. 

"I've come to check on my patient," he manages to say with as much professionalism as he can muster, his voice a croaking rasp. 

Dr. Martin raises one perfectly shaped brow, lips pressing together, slightly displeased he thinks, as she assesses him. 

"Dr. Hale, I assume," she replies before turning back to where Stiles is sitting on the exam table. His straight jacket is back, Derek finally notices, a hobbling ankle chain attached to a loop at bed's base to limit his legs' reach before connecting to his jacket complete the restraints. There's a bruise, already purpling, beginning between his brows and growing up and to the side, swelling along the ridge of his brow, but Derek is relieved to see no brace on his nose. 

"Just finishing up," Dr. Martin continues, giving Stiles' face one last visual examination. "He's lucky he didn't break anything." 

She steps back, picking up a mask with ties to go around the back of the head. 

"Do I need to put this back on you?" she asks, waving the mask front of Stiles' face. 

They _muzzled_ him Derek realizes, fresh anger bubbling at the base of his throat before he swallows it back down. _Later_ , he promises. Although what he's putting off, what he's planning, he doesn't know. 

Stiles snaps his teeth at her, a sharp clack as they come together, before letting out a laugh and leaning back as far as his restraints will let him while still appearing casual. 

"My doc doesn't want me biting. Not yet." His gaze slides towards Derek, tongue peeking out as it brushes against the edge of his incisor, a secret sneaking behind the upturned corner of his lips. Something flutters and clicks at the possessive term, swelling at the stark change in those eyes when they fall on him, and Derek fights a grin, letting it savor on his tongue and dance along his jaw. 

"I'll take responsibility of him," he says, taking a moment to pull on his professional mask. His heart pounds wildly in his chest. 

"That's a dangerous statement," she replies with a raised brow, but she turns before he can reply, writing a note into an open file and closing it. "He's cleared. Now," she straightens, facing Derek with cold eyes and a professional smile, "if you two will excuse me, I have another patient to see. A certain guard _someone_ couldn't seem to resist bashing their head against." 

Derek smothers the anger trying to rise at the mention of the other person- Stiles' _victim,_ the part of him that's clinging to rationality reminds him- that was injured in the scuffle. 

Stiles is quiet at the words and Derek turns towards him, half expecting him to appear pleased or silently laughing. Instead he finds him watching Dr. Martin with a thoughtful mien, something unsure and leery painting the lines of his face before he snaps it back to Derek. He grins then, small and pleased to find Derek's eyes already on him. 

"Don't be too harsh on him," Stiles says smoothly as Dr. Martin reaches the door, gaze never leaving Derek, "he is the messenger after all." 

"I thought he was the message," Derek teases before he can think better of it, but Dr. Martin is already gone. 

The urge to move, to step forward and touch that bruise marring Stiles' face and run his fingers over limbs and ribs in a tactile reassurance is strong, and Derek finds himself pressing off the door frame before he gives his body the command. He stops before Stiles, one hand coming up to brush lightly against the sharp line of his jaw and letting loose a breath as he makes contact.

He lingers, feeling the warm brush of Stiles' exhales, harsh and heave, against his wrist. Thoughts of sliding his hand back until his palm makes contact, cupping Stiles' jaw and-

Footsteps approach, Derek barely managing to step back as the guard from the hall arrives, a man he assumes is the guard's partner in tow. 

Derek clears his throat, curling his fingers under to preserve the warmth still lingering. He dares to glance back at Stiles, finding his attention focused on him, eyes hot and promising things he can't begin to fathom, but he wants to.

"Until next time, doc," Stiles says, voice a rough rasp, as the guards pull him away.

\- 

Boyd is sitting on the couch when Derek gets home, Erica pressed against his side with her legs firmly thrown over his lap and one hand playing with his collar. 

He's found them in more compromising positions before, but this time he feels a stab of longing go through him. Desire for more than the tentative brushes of someone forbidden to him, to be able to partake in the casual intimacy currently on display.

Derek is aware that he is what others would consider a lonely person. Expected after all that he's lost and for someone who lives as he does, but sometimes a moment comes by with as a sharp reminder of that hallow space within him. But never this strongly, never with this amount of clarity on who he's treacherous heart wishes to fill that void. 

He closes his eyes for one painful moment, let's himself imagine Stiles on that couch, leaning against the arm and grinning that grin of his as Derek enters the room. He'd probably flick his gaze down to Derek's socked feet, lingering there for a moment before slowly dragging it back up, a hint of teeth on display, fingers coming up to dance between them in a beckoning to join him. And he would, moving steadily forward until he's within reach to touch. 

"You just get home?" Erica's voice shatters the image, wrenching Derek's eyes back open and his attention back to the moment. 

"Yes," he says slowly. "A guard was attacked by-" he bites back the name, "one of my patients. Stayed late to finish the extra paperwork." 

"Which guard?" 

"I don't know," he replies. Didn't ask. Was afraid of what he'd do with the information. Beating a co-worker to a bloody pulp for bruising his patient wouldn't exactly look good on his resume. Part of him, a much bigger part than he'd like to admit to, isn't bothered by that. 

"How badly was he hurt?" 

He finally looks at Erica, remembering that these are her partners, her team members, putting life and limb on the line to protect the staff at Eichen House. 

"Couple of broken bones. Nothing permanent." The guard will make a full recovery, even received some time off after Stiles managed to break not only the guard's nose, but also somehow snapped his wrist and broke two ribs. 

A flicker of satisfaction curls in Derek's chest even as he realizes it's not enough. 

"Who was the patient?" Her words are casual, even as she rests her shoulders into the curve of Boyd's arm, but Derek finds himself reluctant to answer. He oddly proud of Stiles, chained as he was at the time and vastly outnumbered, and yet he's aware no one else will understand. 

"My newest one," he says after a beat too long. "Stiles." 

Erica seems to freeze for just a moment, gaze going hard as she looks at him before she blinks and opens her mouth. 

"He was angry about Morrell breaking protocol." He should stop talking, fully aware of the defensive note lacing his words. "She denied him access to treatment after a he got into a fight with another patient." He's deliberately lessening the severity of Stiles' action, deliberately choosing words to paint Stiles in a better light and Morrell in a worse one. The knowledge is there, undeniable, leaving Derek unable to hide behind the pretty ideas that he's doing this for anyone but Stiles' benefit.

"Some people just don't seem to get that there are consequences for their actions," Erica replies flippantly, but there's a familiar tension to her tone. 

"Erica," he warns, "I'm fine. Stiles didn't touch me. He could have, but he didn't." He wants to go on, to say that it was a controlled violence, directed at a specific target, elegant in its execution, that Stiles knew exactly what he was doing. Wants to point out that Stiles wouldn't use him like that, just to send a message. But he knows exactly how foolish it will sound, how much those words will reveal. 

"You were in the room?" She blinks wildly at him before a snarl curls her lips. "I'm going-" 

"Erica," he barks back, "I'm fine. Stiles was lashing out at unfair treatment. He could have done a lot worse damage than he did. He wouldn't- he had no reason to try and hurt me." 

She looks at him, unconvinced but biting her tongue. Her jaw is set in a tightly stubborn line, but Derek isn't going to back down on this. 

Erica's shoulders drop as she looks away and Derek feels tension slowly begin to leave him, hadn't realized exactly how on edge he was. He doesn't believe she'd actually try and do any permanent damage Stiles, that would cross a line even the relatively lax regulations at Eichen couldn't tolerate, but he's also aware of how hard the guards can make life for an inmate when they choose too. How easily an accident can happen between a guard and a patient with a history of violence, and how likely it is that the blame will fall fully on the patient. 

Boyd, who's been watching the exchange with a kind of detached amusement, fingers brushing soothing lines down Erica's arm, breaks the silence with a curious question.

"What kind of a name is Stiles anyway?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've apparently been getting pickier about these as I've gone. The first few chapters were edited and posted all with-in the same day or so, now I'm spending weeks looking at things with a critical eye trying to decide if it's ready to be posted.  
> Finally decided that it doesn't matter. I'm way behind on this and would like to get it all posted. Especially since the possible sequel and chapter two of Baby, We're a Cliché are all starting to snag my muse's attention.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game they play has upped the stakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter may be a little bit late, so I'm throwing this out here now. The next chapter is _mostly_ done. There's just one part of one little scene I'm not happy with and I'm going to give myself a little time to see if I can wrestle it under control. If not, I'll post it as is.

"His is a violent criminal who attacked an employee just this week," Dr. Morrell replies too Derek's request to move Stiles' sessions into his office. 

"He's not had any violent outbursts since his temper-tantrum over our cancelled session," Derek argues. "Which, I'd like to point out, happened after a significant break-through. The story of his _name_." He puts special emphasis on the reminder. It's a lie, but Derek's beyond caring at this point. "That is the most common time for a patient to act out. His routine was disrupted, and with the lack of mental stimulation combined with giving up information he'd been trying to keep to himself, it was an explosive cocktail waiting to happen." 

"Which exploded less than two days ago," Dr. Morrell counters, still looking at him like he's a teenager trying to argue for a later curfew. 

"Just because it happened sooner than expected, does not mean it wasn't expected." It was only a small smudge in the truth, but he dreamed the last two nights of stretches of pale skin against leather, awaking with the certainty that something had to change. "As his doctor, I am suggesting that this is the best course of action." 

"Having a barely restrained, violent patient, alone in your office-" 

"I've held sessions with patients with a history of violence in my office in the past. And Stiles is never shown any indication of directing his violence towards me. Quite the opposite in fact." He bites the inside of his lip against reminding her he doesn't need her permission, not technically. Stiles is on his second outburst in just as many months, they've had far more explosive patients staying with them, but one word from her and Stiles could have his entire file marked High Risk and then Derek would need her sign-off to even have their sessions on the same side of three-inch-thick plexiglass, let alone unmonitored. All progress would be halted, and Derek won't risk losing Stiles because he got on the bad side of his boss. 

Dr. Morrell takes a breath, looking at him a long moment before saying, "We can't be held responsible for any damages he may do." The 'too you' goes unsaid. 

"I'll sign a waiver." 

He doesn't even hesitate, and he'd worry more but he's given up on a logical reaction when it comes to Stiles. He's broken the cardinal rule and become emotionally involved with his patient, with an _insane criminal._ He's already this far down the rabbit hole, all he can do now is hold on and hope he survives the impact. 

\- 

There's a knock on his office door at precisely three minutes until one, Derek just finishing up some notes. He caps his pen, putting it in a locked drawer along with the rest of the "potential weapons" Dr. Morrell had insisted he have out of reach before she'd allow Stiles in his personal space. 

His jacket is off when he stands, exposing more of his work-casual dress shirt and slacks than he's used to, and leaving him feeling fairly exposed when he opens the door to see Stiles standing there, bracketed by Erica and Jackson, a part time security guard whom Derek is pretty sure could use some sessions himself. 

"Dr. Hale," Erica greets with as much professionalism as she can muster. Jackson just looks bored with the whole thing. 

"Right on time," he says as he steps back, letting the guards escort Stiles into the room. A third one follows, shorter than others but familiar. The guard who stood outside Dr. Martin's office when Stiles was injured. 

"This is Dunbar," Erica says with a jerk of her head, her and Jackson leaving Stiles by the couch, "he's following me and Whittemore today." 

Derek raises a brow but doesn't comment. If Dunbar is new enough to still be in orientation then him being by himself in that hall is even more of a breach in protocol. 

"Welcome to Eichen House," he says politely, and Stiles barks out a low laugh. Derek shoots him a warning glare, feeling anxious and guilty under another's gaze. He smothers it under a glower.

The guards turn to go, Jackson giving the new guy a small shove when he's caught looking around in interest at the walls of the office. It's fairly spartan compared to most places. Derek doesn't keep his degrees on his walls, there's no bookcase filled with medical journals. Even his computer is nothing but a laptop he keeps locked in one of the many cabinets along the walls and his only pieces of furniture are the desk, a couple of chairs, and the long faux leather couch under the barred, bulletproof window. Even his curtains, concessions made he suspects due to his family name, were removed before Stiles arrived. 

Derek reaches out to touch Eric's bicep as she gets to the door, years of friendship the only thing keeping her from breaking his fingers at the action, he's sure. Then again, it's only years of friendship that lend him the familiarity to voice the request what he's about to make. 

"The cuffs," he says nodding his head to where Stiles is still standing, wrists and ankles bound together in one long secure set of restraints. He'd made the stipulation for no straight jacket before Stiles was brought in, sneaking the order in without running it by his supervisor. It's not technically against the rules, but he's aware he'll be skating thin ice if Morrell finds out. 

Erica gives him a long, measuring look before she rolls her eyes and turns back to his patient, keys jingling in her hands as she rummages for the one needed. 

Stiles raises his brows in exaggerated surprise before a large smirk lifts one corner of his mouth, hands lifted to allow her to unlock the cuffs. 

"If you hurt him," she growls, just loud enough that Derek can make out the words. 

"Erica," he warns. His ears go hot, and he fights the urge to place himself bodily between the two of them. 

Stiles laughs, that full-bodied one that he's grown to love so much. Erica makes a jerking motion with her hands that he can't see, cutting Stiles off with a sharp grunt and a snap of his teeth, but he's still grinning as he looks back at her. 

"I'm a hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. And he's..." Stiles looks at him, gaze flicking down and back up. It's a clinical look, but something in it makes Derek feels warm, his breath catching in his chest and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

"That's not what I-" Erica begins before cutting herself off. "I'll be right outside the door." He doesn't know who she's telling, if it's a warning or a promise, but Derek nods, clearing his throat as the other two guards step out of his office. 

She turns to head out, hesitating only a moment, head half-turned towards him before she changes her mind and leaves. 

Stiles spreads his arms as the door shuts, rolling his wrists and humming in pleasure as he stretches them as far as they'll go. His top pulls across his chest, exposing lines of wiry muscles and hidden strength and Derek finds himself taking a half-step forward, fingers twitching upward, before he catches himself. 

"Alone at last," Stiles teases, already taking strides around the room. Derek's face goes hot. 

"There are things we should discuss," Derek says, taking the chair adjacent to the couch by the window, licking suddenly dry lips. He holds back from rubbing his sweaty palms on his slacks, forcing the giddy rush fluttering through him down. 

"You still have questions for me, doc? Of course you do," Stiles continues before Derek can answer. He gives him a grin over his shoulder, twisting himself until he flops down on the couch in an ungraceful sprawl. He moves until he's manages to cross his legs, back resting against one of the arms, facing Derek with a flash of teeth. "You always have questions. And I always have answers. It's become our thing." 

"More like you always try and distract me. Usually succeed too." He's not sure why he confesses that last part. Except Stiles is here, in his space, a sliver of that impossible fantasy made reality, and that... that feels far more comfortable than it should. Far more _right_. 

The grin that spreads over Stiles' face is knowing and a little pleased, the sharp edge of satisfaction imbedded in the curves. 

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Stiles mocks. He tilts his head to the side like he needs to study Derek anew in this light, eyes going half-mast and Derek finds himself leaning forward slightly in his chair. He forces himself to move back, although he can't remember why it's so important that he does. 

"How about something simple," Derek suggests, relaxing under the familiarity flowing between them. He crosses his arms over his chest and slouching back until his back is curved in an easy manner, legs spreading to accommodate the new distribution of weight. It's unprofessional. He doesn't care. "Maybe why you were at the docks the night you were arrested? Or maybe why it is you arranged the bodies of the dock workers the way you did?" 

"You gotta have pride in your work," Stiles says absently, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, his gaze never leaving Derek. 

"Is that what that was? Pride." 

Stiles smiles, slow and mean and distracted. Flashing teeth at a memory Derek can't see. 

"It was so many things," he says in a voice like molasses, too thick and dark. His body is unnaturally still, looking slowly down to the space between Derek's braced feet. He jerks his gaze up suddenly, locking eyes with Derek and catching it there. 

"What about you, doctor? What crimes have you committed?" 

"Can't say I've committed any big ones," Derek says, trying to give the matter real consideration. His thoughts feel caught in the present, cycling around the man before him and this undeniable thing between them. 

"Haven't thought about any?" 

"Not seriously." He smiles slightly, a tiny uptick in the corners of his mouth that he doesn't bother trying to repress. _Not in a long time,_ he thinks about adding as his thoughts skewer suddenly into the past. 

He can almost still taste the ash on his tongue, mixing with the feel long nails against his skin, throaty whispers telling him to beg while too much heat sears into his back. An overlap of too many memories and Derek fights to get his abruptly tense body loose, fists unclenched and expression neutral at the onslaught. He's not sure he succeeds. 

"What about your uncle?" Stiles says, bringing Derek's attention back to him. There's something too knowing in that calculating gaze. "You can't tell me you've never thought the world would be a better place if someone slashed his throat." Stiles leans forward suddenly, feet swinging around to touch the carpet and dropping his voice into that intimate purr he's perfected, only this time there's no table between them. It feels different, in the new light with nothing but the illusion of space keeping them apart. "Never fantasized about doing it yourself? All alone in that big ol' house, no one around to hear him scream." 

The picture comes unbidden, chasing the lingering memories of crackling flames and too faint screams; a blade in his hand that's dripping on the carpet, one of Peter's expensive v-necks painted red as his eyes go dull and he gurgles out the last threads of his life. Derek's heart pounds, his mouth goes dry and something he refuses to name pulses quick and addictive through his veins. There's horror too, not much, but enough that he clings to it. It echoes familiarly, touching on memories long best buried. 

"A friend lives with us," he says, wrenching himself back to the present, and the smile that creases Stiles' cheeks is full of dark satisfaction. 

"Is that all that's holding you back?" 

"No," he replies reluctantly. He licks his lips unable- _unwilling_ -to look away from that too seeing gaze. "Peter's all the family I have now." 

"Hmmm," Stiles hums, "and family is important." He sounds almost taunting. 

"It is to me," Derek finally says after a long pause where the discomfort blooming in the pit of his stomach makes itself known. 

Stiles leans back slowly, never breaking his gaze, until his back is pressed into the couch. One side of his lips quirks up. 

"I see." 

\- 

"You were brought up in a session today," he says. He's standing in his father's old office, gaze studying the bottle of whiskey, still in the same decanter after all these years. Laura never could bring herself to touch it but kept it on display and Derek's continued the process even after her death. 

"And how is dear Stiles," Peter says from his reading spot in one of the chairs, one finger tapping on his nearly empty glass absently. 

"He wants to know why I haven't killed you." 

"And what did you tell him?" If the question bothers him, Peter shows no sign. 

"That you're my only family." He turns to look at his uncle, letting images of poisoning his drink fill his thoughts. They're unsatisfying. The one Stiles had brought forth in his office this afternoon was more appealing. He shakes it off. 

"Well, there is that. Do me a favor," Peter says with a smile that's all charm and teeth, "let me know if our shared blood stops being enough for you." 

"Need time to make a counter plan?" 

Peter's chuckle is low and dark. "It's sweet how you think I don't already have one." 

The words should be more disturbing, but somehow he's not surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, I have some "deleted scenes" from this story. Some were just sort of repetitive, but at least two I really liked but didn't fit with the flow. And at least one is present in the story, just heavily edited, but I still liked the original well enough to have not deleted. I'd post them all in a last chapter on here if anyone has any interest in them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek get's some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Here it is! And only like four days late. XD

"Have you seen the news?" Erica says without so much as a hello when they meet for lunch that Sunday. Isaac has already messaged him saying he'll be late and to order without him. 

Derek takes a careful breath, sorting through the various emotions swirling through him before he nods. 

"You buy it?" 

"They have the body," he says as the waiter comes up to collect their order. It says something about this town that the young man doesn't even blink over the words. "Which is more than last time." 

They each order a water, Derek citing they need more time as Erica impatiently wave their waiter away. It gives him time to think more over the offer given by the detective on his family's case to confirm for himself. One Peter took full advantage of, coming home with a viciously satisfied smile and a thick brown folder. 

"I saw the autopsy report," he adds as the waiter turns to leave. 

Erica is silent for a beat, staring at him with wide, questioning eyes before finally demanding, "And?" 

"Prints, DNA, and dental records all confirm; it's Kate." 

Derek suppresses a wince as Erica let's a loud whoop, a few other restaurant's patrons looking over. 

"We should celebrate," she says with a sharp toothed grin before she sees the look on his face. She rolls her eyes, but her next words are gently spoken. "This is a good thing, Derek." 

It wasn't common knowledge that Kate started the fire that killed seven of the Hales. Officially, the case was cold, without enough evidence to even make her an official person of interest and she had a solid alibi for the time of the murders. One happily provided by Gerard himself. Before his fall from grace as the Argents secrets were uncovered and he started spending bouts of time in Eichen. 

Laura hadn't known, not all of it, not about him and his role. Something that still leaves the taste of shame and relief mixing unpleasantly on Derek's tongue. 

"I know," he says, trying to nod. He does too. But his feelings for Kate have always been complicated. From those first few days when his mind was reeling on why a woman like her, smart and fierce and beautiful, would even look twice at the gangly teenager he was, to later when his clothes still smelled of smoke and she flashed her teeth in a mockery of a smile, her finger curling around the trigger. _"Whoops. Looks like I'll have to finish the rest off by hand."_

"The bitch is dead," Erica says with finality, ripping him from the complicated knots of his past. "You may not feel like celebrating, but I do. Drinks tonight. And not at your place. We're going out properly." 

Derek suppresses a grin, settling for giving Erica a glare he knows she'll ignore. 

She snorts, opening her mouth to no doubt press her point when Isaac slides into his seat. 

"What'd I miss?" 

\- 

Derek's watching the time with a kind of intensity he hasn't experienced in years, heart pounding and palms sweating. Counting down the seconds until Stiles is brought to his office. 

He'd been distracted during the session with his previous patient, asking questions by rote and making half-assed notes, and the hour after was supposed to be dedicated to paperwork and charting, approving new orders and reading over nurses' notes. Instead it's been spent between willing time to move faster and pacing the room like a caged animal. 

He supposes part of its Kate's death. It would make sense, from a psychological standpoint, that he would be reacting to that. That the death of his family's murderer would mix and heighten his already extreme reactions to waiting on his patient. On _Stiles,_ who is clinically insane and in his professional care. 

His hands come up, fists tangling in his hair as he takes in a breath, letting it out in a forceful push. There's a knock on his door. 

His eyes dart to the time displayed on his laptop, but there's still nearly ten minutes before Stiles is scheduled to arrive and none of the guards bring his patients earlier. Not even those he knows. Especially not those he knows. 

It's with no small amount of trepidation that Derek answers, pulling open the door to see Dr. Morrell standing there, her typically stoic face pinched slightly along the edges. 

"Good afternoon," she greets in her cool, even tone, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." 

Derek makes a point of checking the time, schooling his features into something resembling a thoughtful frown. At least he hopes that's how it comes across. His family always used to say a glare came easier to him than a smile. 

"I have an appointment in ten minutes." 

"This will only take a moment." She takes a single step forward, forcing Derek to either come off as rude or allow her in. 

It's with a frustrated reluctance that Derek steps back, holding the door open as his boss steps into his office. 

She turned to face him, not bothering with the chair usually used for guests, and for one terrifying and irrational moment Derek wonders if she's heard about Kate. Has come to console or question him. But the fire was over a decade ago and their relationship a dirty little secret tied to it. 

"I wanted to suggest a possible treatment for your most recent patient." She pauses a moment as if in thought before clarifying. "Stiles." 

"Alright," he says with some hesitation. It's not uncommon for a fellow doctor to give suggestions, although Dr. Morrell rarely made them to him. 

"I was thinking he may benefit from EST." Derek fights to keep the strong, immediate negative from showing on his face, gritting his teeth on a snarl as she almost smiles. "It's shown to be of great help for those with violent mood swings." 

He shoves his hands into his slack's pockets to keep them from clenching, swallowing down his aggression before carefully choosing his reply. "Thank you for the suggestion." He wonders if the irritation under his polite words is as obvious to her as it is to him. "I'll keep it in mind. If I decide _my_ patient shows the proper symptoms of bipolar disorder and doesn't respond to traditional medications." The last words are spoken with too much bite, crossing the line into disrespectful. 

Dr. Morrell studies him for a long moment, face unreadable and eyes half-hidden behind lowered lids. 

"Very well." If she's angry at him, he can't tell. She takes a step towards the door, Derek stepping back to let her pass. "There was a bomb detonated on the corner of 45th and Woodway St," she adds, turning as she becomes even with him. 

Derek blinks blankly at her, trying to connect that bit of information with their currently conversation. 

"Over what most would consider the lesser half of Beacon Hills," she says with the same careful off-hand manner. "None of the big names are taking credit." She looks away from him, taking another step towards his door as she says over his shoulder. "I'd check your patient's mood this afternoon. See how gleeful he about his 'fireworks.'" 

Derek freezes like he's been struck, mind whirling and clicking back to that session just a few months prior and Stiles' gleeful promise. And for one dark, detached moment, he wonders what's at the corner of 45th and Woodway, what significance it has to the man with the laughing eyes and wicked smile. _Interest_ slithers through him, curious and tasting of fascination. 

He has questions, not born out of anger or horror, but out of a different, curiouser, impulse. To see, get a glimpse into the mind that's captured his attention so utterly these last months. 

He pulls his thoughts back in order as Dr. Morrell exits, leaving Derek with his pounding heart, excited anticipation vibrating through him. 

\- 

Derek spends the two minutes researching the area where the explosion took one life and injured three others. Not matter how he looks at it, Derek can't find a single connection between the location and Stiles. It appears completely random. Part of him wonders if that in and of itself is the connection. 

He notes, with some relief, that he's not apathetic towards the victims. Even feels a twinge of sympathy for the deceased's family and some mild discomfort over the idea that Stiles is responsible for their pain. It's not much, but it's comfort all the same. 

When the knock comes, Derek is reading twenty-year-old article about the opening of one of the shops near that corner, squinting to see the details on the grainy black and white image copied onto the site. He scrambles to put his laptop away before opening the door, two guards bringing Stiles in and once again unshackling him at Derek's request. 

"Look at you," croons Stiles as the door shuts and leaving them alone once again. Something eases in Dere at the sound of his voice, at the warmth and ease that Stiles let's his gaze rove over him. "You didn't have to get all dressed up for me, doc." 

He looks down at his usual button up, the sleeves rolled up and dark gray material hanging loose around the waist of his slacks. It's the most casual he's been while at work since he started. Even the beginning of stubble along his jaw is something not seen in a long while, Derek's mind on other matters this morning. 

"Well if you're not going to appreciate it," he teases with a mock grumble. It feels rusty, blunted with disuse and previous lingering tension, but Stiles' eyes light up. 

His breath catches as Stiles leans forward, like he can't help himself, and something clenches low and hot in his stomach. A thrill dances down his spine at the delighted smile that spreads over Stiles' face. 

Stiles laughs suddenly, head thrown back and exposing that long line of his throat and the dark moles adorning it. 

"Oh, I had hope." He looks back at Derek, teeth gleaming for a moment in the low light as he takes a step forward. "But this is so much better than I expected." The takes a couple of slow steps forward, head tilting to the side to let the shadows play over the planes of his face. 

"What did you expect?" 

"Not this much, not this fast," he all but whispers, voice dropped low as he steps closer. The back of Derek's thighs hit the edge of his desk without him having realized he was backing up, Stiles advancing slow and vibratingly tense. A predator hidden beneath a lean physique and spastic twitches. 

"But I knew," Stiles says in that same soft seductive tone, bare feet gliding across the floor until Derek leans back, palms of his hand catching onto the edge of the desk as it takes the full brunt of his weight. Stiles pushes into his space, a line of heat along his front, and Derek inches his legs apart to make room for him. "You're so close," he continues, voice dropping lower with every word and breath brushing incitingly along Derek's upper lip. His hands tighten on the wooden desk edge to keep from reaching out, thoughts stutter-stopping and his breath a soft wheeze between them. "Almost there, Derek. Just a little further. I promise, just a little more," he half-whisper, gaze studying him like he's worth it. Like Stiles finds him just as fascinating. 

One of Stiles' hands reaches for him, long fingers brushing the edges of Derek's stubbled cheek in a shocking bit of contact before they move under the edge of his jaw and across the top of his neck in a light pressure. Stiles eyes follow his movements, lips parted as his own breath speeds up, before they flick back up. His fingers curl around the sides of his throat, thumb caressing over his pulse until his palm makes contact. Derek's breath hitches at that, feeling the warm spread and light pressure increases until he can feel the indents of each fingers against his skin and into the tissue below. 

He can't look away, can't stop watching as the pressure increases, fingers pressing inward steadily until each breath is thin and restricted. They vibrate in his throat, coming in shorter bursts as Stiles squeezes harder, openly curious as he watches Derek fights to catch his breath. He doesn't break contact, watching those warm eyes watch him and thinking he can almost see the shards of insanity, cutting and beautiful, in their depths. His already limited breath attempts to speed up at that near glimpse, the reason, all of his careful choices that led him here. Not to help damaged souls or to make the world safer, but to see. To understand. To get that glimpse of a fractured mind that he missed when he was too young. 

He presses forward, leaning against that strong grip until his shallow breaths nearly stutters and stops, chasing that flash, and Stiles lets him, fingers twitching around his throat. A warning and a promise, and Derek watches that gaze flicker and asses him. Sees for just a moment all the pieces, shattered but whole, rearranged into a wonderful clashing of reason and chaos. 

His lungs begin to burn, heart pounding in this chest as Stiles' grip tightens, cutting of that last wisp of air, and still Derek doesn't move. Watching the mad man in front of him as Stiles studies him. Darkness brushes the corners of the room but Derek feels oddly calm, waiting for the next move. The edges of expected panic are there, toeing the line of his thoughts, kept at bay by the feel of Stiles' warm breaths puffing lightly against his lips, as if Derek would be OK as long as Stiles kept breathing. 

Slowly, a soft, awed smile blooms across Stiles' face. With careful moves, the pressure against this neck never wavering, Stiles leans forward, his breath a hot brush against the shell of Derek's ear as he breathes in slow bites of air, "So. Fucking. Good." 

His eyes threaten to close, a moan catching in his closed off throat, and the line of heat along his front reaching near unbearable. It's all Derek can do to stay standing as his legs begin to lose strength. 

He lets out an involuntary gasp when Stiles steps back, severing all points of contact between them as he backs up nearly to the door. His throat aches, lungs burning with each chocking breath, and he's painfully hard. He can only imagine what sort of picture he makes; hands braced against the desk, legs spread obscenely, dark slacks doing nothing to hide his arousal, breathing heavily, and what is probably the red beginnings of a ring circling his throat like a collar. But a pleased, fierce flash of teeth crosses Stiles' face, a satisfied twisting of his lips before he looks away.

With each greedy breath still fighting past his bruised throat, Derek takes the bit of faux privacy will himself back into order, feeling a pang of regret as he let's the thrumming tension under his skin settle. This week is off a bang up start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this.... did not turn out like I thought it would. Not that I'm complaining. I actually like this chapter, even if it contains none of what it originally contained (hence the chapter number bump.)  
> When I first wrote this, it contained two scenes. One scene was completely rewritten and the second is now placed firmly in next chapter and neither scene can really go in the same chapter of as the Original Chapter Ten. So now I have to add a bunch to the next chapter to get it nice and fleshed out.  
> But I'm still pretty happy with most of it. I struggled a lot with Morrell and Derek's conversation, and I must say I am not exactly happy with that. But it needed to happen. Then Stiles insisted he get handsy with Derek _before_ they talk instead of after and they've had such little physical contact that who am I to deny him his desire to finally get to touch his doc?
> 
> Next chapter will pick up nearly right where this one let's off. We're talking minutes here. :P
> 
> Just a side note: I know that ECT is not really a treatment for **violent** mood swings, but it is used to treat severe depression and bipolar disorder in cases where medication isn't helping. I know very little beyond that (besides some of the side effects after treatment), and Morrell is also perfectly aware that it is not for treatment of violence alone, but she has her reasons for suggesting it. Mainly that she's not an idiot -although she's also not a mind reader either- and is perfectly aware that Derek may have taken a less-than-professional interest in Stiles. She may not know how far it's gone, but she knows she may need to take action soon. We know it's far too late for her to do anything, :P


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has a confession to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. Let me just start out by saying that I've never written anything really sexual before. I take that back, I wrote a fic where someone watches someone else masturbate in public and a femslash about sex in the dark, but both of those were focused on someone thinking about what they were doing to the other person and how they felt about them. 
> 
> This isn't even that sexual, all things considered, but it's still the most detailed smut-scene I've written. I swear it wasn't supposed to be sexual. I wrote it as a power play and then next thing I know Stiles' hand is moving downward.  
> Basically, please be gentle with me on this chapter, or at least on that scene.

It takes several minutes for Derek to collect himself after Stiles steps away. 

He should feel embarrassed, he thinks, taking measure breathes through his aching throat and willing the buzzing in his veins down, but all he can muster is a pleased warmth laced with pride. One hand comes up, his own fingers pressing against the places Stiles' had been. They'll bruise, leaving purple smudges against his dark skin, the perfect fit for the mad man's hands if anyone bothers to look closely. He's fiercely pleased at the thought, his own fingers digging in harder for just a moment. 

"So, doc," Stiles says jarringly casual, pulling Derek out of his thoughts and to where he's flopped himself down into his chair, "tell me, what's on the agenda for today." He picks up the pad of paper beside the chair, flipping through Derek's half-scrawled notes on his previous patients, gaze skimming over them. He should stop him, confidentiality laws and doctor ethics, but Derek's still breathing too quick, each breath painfully jagged in his aching throat and body thrumming with lingering desire, and he can't seem to muster up the needed concern. 

"My-" He stops, feeling the croak in his throat and the dryness on his tongue, and a new uncertainty blooms as he shifts his full weight to his feet. 

Stiles' attention remains on the pages before him, not quiet ignoring Derek but still giving him the illusion of being in the shadows. He makes a note on the margin of one page, absently chewing on the knuckle of one long finger on the opposite hand as he does so. It's soothes the uncertainty, blunts it until Derek finds himself straightening to his full height and taking a step towards the man in his chair. 

"I had a meeting with my boss," he says finally, watching the twirling of the pen in Stiles hand, the lowering of his lashes as he focuses on a particular bit of information Derek jotted down. 

"The one trying to separate us?" Stiles asks, seemingly unfazed, but there's a coldness under the surface, a barely perceptive chill. 

"Yeah," he says on a sigh, feeling his own answering irritation towards the woman. "She wants me to prescribe electroshock treatments for you." 

Stiles flicks his gaze towards him then, measuring and sly, something sharp and cold glancing out of those sharp eyes until Derek shivers with it. 

"Really now?" His tongue comes out to wet his bottom lip, eyes going half-mast as he slumps back in the chair, pen still caught in one hand. "And what did you say?" His voice is deceptively soft, almost detached. 

"I reminded her," Derek replies tightly, a roughened growl underlining his words, "that you were my patient, not her's." 

Stiles' smiles, dark and pleased, whole body stilling, like a cobra about to strike, as he watches Derek. His licks his lips, half-lidded gaze sweeping down and back up. 

"Good." 

As if the word was permission, Derek takes steps forward, settling himself on the couch usually reserved for patients. It should feel strange, he thinks, but there was a flip switched earlier, an almost reversing of their dynamic when Stiles reached out to touch him. 

"An ex of mine was killed last night." He doesn't know why he shares that, but Kate's face had surfaced as he watched Stiles' fingers once again start to twitch and twist around his pen. Her lifeless eyes staring upward, fading surprise and anger and fear all warring on features now too pale with death and awash with shadows. 

"Congratulations," Stiles says, sounding genuinely pleased as he makes another mark on the notes before him. "You never forget your first," Stiles adds with fond smile, lifting his head and looking at Derek like they're sharing a secret. "How did she die?" 

"You already know," he says quietly, his voice a rough rasp from his throat. 

The grin on Stiles' face is wide and full of teeth, the chuckling giggles bubbling forth before he tilts his head. "Not the details." He taps the pen against the page, eyes sparking with those inner shards of broken sanity. "C'mon, doc. Let's hear it from you." 

Derek watches him, studying his movements as Stiles crosses his legs, adopting an air of faux professionalism and propping the notepad on his knees. 

"Her throat was slit," he whisper-croaks. 

"And tell me, Derek," Stiles says in mocking seriousness, "how does that make you feel?" 

There's a moment, bright and clear, where they stare at each other. Everything suspended between them in perfect clarity and he _knows,_ can see it laid out before him. It shatters at the sudden, unexpected laugh that barks out of his bruised throat, giving peeks at the pieces of his own psyche as the harsh, rasping laughter tumbles from him. 

"Interesting," Stiles murmurs. He makes another note.

\- 

Derek leaves work early, clocking out less than half an hour after the guards come to pick Stiles up. He claims sickness, his croaking voice lending credence to his claims, and manages to reschedule his last session of the day. 

Boyd has a cup of tea waiting for him when he gets home, lightly flavored with honey and a splash of lemon. 

"Erica called," he replies to Derek's inquiring brow. 

He frowns, trying to recall seeing Erica at work, before taking a careful, reluctant sip of the tea. It's irrational, but the thought of soothing his sore throat is unappealing. 

"Thanks," he half-croaks before taking another sip under Boyd's watchful eyes. 

"You wanna talk about it?" Boyd asks, turning away so Derek can't try and suss out his meaning. 

"There's nothing to talk about," he says after a pause, watching Boyd out of the corner of his eyes. 

"Alright then." 

\- 

Someone is behind him, he knows there is with the unquestioned certainty that comes only within dreams, but he can't look. Can't tear his gaze away from Kate before him, fierce and beautiful, smiling that predator's grin while flames dance in her eyes. She bares her teeth at him, a slash of white against coral pink, and something like fear, like longing, knots in his stomach, familiar and nauseating. 

He opens his mouth, the 'please' rising to his lips, when long fingers curl around his throat, and the word dies. Laying rotting and shameful on his tongue. 

A chest brushes against Derek's back, a tease of warmth that he tries to chase, press against but stays tantalizingly out of reach. 

"What do we have here?" Stiles whispers. 

Kate chuckles before him, not noticing the mad man at his back, as she tilts her head in an invitation he's not ready to answer. Not yet. 

Stiles hums low in his throat, and Derek can feel it vibrate against his back before he hears it. Feels it burrow inside him until this throat aches with in and it settles in his bones. 

"Please," he manages, the word desperate and broken, falling from his lips. Stiles rewards him with an arm around snaking around his waist, pressing against his chest against him until Derek can almost feel his heartbeat. Kate smiles, sultry and pleased. The dark edge of satisfaction is in her eyes 

"Look at you," Stiles breathes. "Look at what you've done." 

He licks his lips, opening eyes he hadn't realized had closed and sees Kate's smile widen until her lips leech of color, gaze darkening with bruises. 

"Do you think she knows?" Stiles asks, soft and amused, one hand brushing against the skin of his stomach in a gentle stroke, a molten ball of heat following in its wake. His other presses against the thin skin of Derek's throat. "Do you think she understands now?" 

Kate goes to reach for him, hollows dug beneath her cheeks, hair dulling in the fading light and Stiles chuckles, low and private as his hand slips lower, down where Derek is hard and wanting. The curl of his hand is possessive, fingers strong and slightly cool against the heated flesh. 

"Left you all alone. Didn't think anyone would want what she broke." Clever fingers press against his neck, a soft counter point to the near painful squeeze as he tightens his grip below Derek's waist. 

"Show her, Derek. Make her see." He looks at Kate, locking his gaze on her as Stiles begins to twist his wrist on a downward stroke. He sees her empty eyes watching him as her smiles freezes in a gruesome sneer, a splash of red budding against the perfect colorless pallet of her lips. A desperate moan escapes from his throat barely audible, hips snapping forward in time to Stiles' strokes. 

"There you are. C'mon," Stile hisses, squeezing almost painfully around him, nearly stopping as he slows to force Derek to follow his pace. "Almost there. You're being so good." He gives a harsh jerk, on the wrong side of gentle, that leaves Derek panting out a grunt, teeth biting into his lower lip as fingers dance over the bruises on his neck, Stiles' words pressed against his ear. One of Kate's hand comes up, touching the jagged tear in her throat and Stiles hums his approval as her fingers pull away, red and bloody. 

"That's it. So close," Stiles hums, twisting his wrist at a new angle and sending zips of electricity beginning at the base of his spine. "Give me just a little more, Derek." 

He lets out a chocked gasp, Kate's eyes going dull as she watches him surrender, the still dripping knife falling from his red stained fingers as he reaches his peak. 

\- 

Derek wakes to a pounding heart and sticky sheets, an old problem he thought he left behind in college. Trying to steady his breathing and feeling the pleasure-sick slide of satiated desire curling through his veins, Derek slowly sits up. 

There's a part of him, a deeply rooted bit that was born in ash and flames, that wants to pick apart the already fading images, tug each strand until he's dug out the hidden truths of his psyche, no matter how plain they may seem. But he pushes it aside, clearing his throat to check for any lingering soreness and finding it feeling bruised, but not horribly so. The bits of tea seems to have made some progress, he thinks grumpily.

He glances at the clock, taking note of the time and with a frustrated grumble he pushes himself up, feet touching the rug on his bedroom floor as he rubs the last of the sleep from his eyes. He doesn't have a session with Stiles today, and his earliest appointment isn't for another four hours, but if he gets to work early enough he can stop by Stiles' room before he's missed in his office.

It'll go noticed, but Stiles is still his patient, for however much longer before Morrell finds a doctor more willing to do her bidding, and Derek is done playing on another person's timetable. 

\- 

"Well well well," Stiles calls as Derek swipes his badge and the cell door opens. "What do we have here?" 

For a moment, something hot and tight twists low in his stomach, a floating bit of memory surfacing with a shivering lick of desire before Derek suppresses it. 

It hadn't taken much to disable the audio surveillances in Stiles' cell, a quick visit to the nurses and a verbal order to D/C it. Still, he finds himself missing the solitude of his office and the privacy it hinted at. 

"I came to check on you," he says, before he glances at the camera. He turns to an angle, effectively blocking it from seeing too much of his face. "They can see us, but everything said remains confidential." 

Stiles tilts his head in question, amusement dancing along the edge of mouth. 

"So formal," he teases, pushing up from the cot bolted to the center of the room and Derek realizes with a start that Stiles is unchained. He's seen him without restraints before, often by his own demands, but there's something different about them being here, in Stiles' space with him unbound. "Are you going to make me call you 'Dr. Hale' while you listen to my heart with a stethoscope?' 

"I hardly think I 'make' you do anything," Derek responds, fighting the urge to shift as Stiles steps towards him with slow measured steps. He stops just inside what would be considered inappropriately close to any outside observer, but Derek can't bring himself to tell him to step back. 

Stiles laughs suddenly, head thrown back and putting that long line of his neck in view and Derek's throat goes dry, gaze locking on the moles dotting that expanse of skin enticingly. His own is ringed with bruises, dark on the sides and fading to strawberry red along the front. He fights the urge to touch them, press against those fingertip sized spots until they hurt while simultaneously pressing his mouth against those marks on Stiles' skin. He glances away, looking back only as the laughter dies off.

Stiles smiles at him, twisting himself forward as one hand comes up and he points at Derek. 

"I have a request," he declares, jerking up and drumming the fingers of his other hand against the metal rail that serves as his footboard, buzzing with a sudden bout of restless energy, something unsure skittering under the move. 

"Of course," Derek replies without hesitation, before can remind himself that there are certain things he can't, shouldn't, promise. He doesn't correct himself though, doesn't add a stipulation or limitations, and Stiles grins, wide and breathtaking and so utterly pleased. 

"Oh this is just too good," he all but sings, merriment dancing in his eyes. "You," he steps forward in a rush, one hand jerking up to press against Derek's chest, "you are just so... perfect." He laughs, high and delighted and more than half manic. Warmth blooms in Derek's chest, an eager urge to promise more rising. He bites it back down.

"What do you need?" 

"That's a loaded question," Stiles murmurs to himself, gaze off in the middle distance before he turns it back to Derek with a jerk and a harsh flash of teeth. 

"I need something sharp enough to slit a man's throat. Or a woman's," he waves his hand, "I swing both ways."

Derek's heart seems to stop, pausing for one long second before pounding hard in his chest in rapid fire. 

"What do you say, doc?" Stiles asks with a tilt of his head and too sharp eyes. "You going to help me out or are you just going to stand around and look pretty while it all goes to hell?" 

He licks suddenly dry lips. "You want my help?" he asks, mind locking in on that one piece, turning it over in a sort of satisfied pride before the realization buries it under desperate panic. "You're _leaving_?"

Stiles shoots him a scathing look, eyes rolling. 

"Now now, doc, don't be dense." He goes suddenly serious, gaze pining Derek to the spot. "Everything comes to end eventually. But if you're offering to help..." he adds with a shrug, shoulders shifting under the thin material of the institution-issued shirt. He smiles, sly and calculating. "Although I _can_ do it on my own while you stay all tucked away safe in that little office of yours." His eyes go bright, his grin taking on that playfully manic edge that makes Derek's heart skip a beat. "Between you and me, I'm more fun." 

"I- I cou-..." he licks his lips, gaze dropping. He'd love to say that he's torn, at war with himself as his logic argues with his emotions, but... he's surprisingly blank. Thoughts all cleared away except for one automatic, gut wrenching, response. _Of course._

Of course Stiles is going to leave. Of course Derek isn't going to stop him. Of course he wants to follow him, wants to help, wants... wants Stiles. 

He looks up, making eye contact with the mad man across from him, and feels reality crashing back down. Because Stiles can't stay here, being his patient, being _his_ forever. Locked up in a cage where the guards have tempers and an excuse, where Morrell wants to fry his brain, and nobody but Derek comes close to understanding him. Caring about him. 

People are going to get hurt, going to die. People he knows, likes even, and he doesn't care. The man he loves is going home. 

He takes a breath and says the only thing he can, the only answer he has. 

"I can have it to you by the end of the day." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm just going to blame this all on my being asexual. Figuring out how to write sex without taking the reader out of the moment is so much easier when I'm writing from the mindset of the person _not_ having an orgasm. I've always said that sex is best when I'm not a part of it. 
> 
> Btw: I work in medical, to D/C an order is to consider the order finished or cancelled.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The break-out happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I should up the chapter count. There's still the epilogue (and deleted scenes) and it feels weird saying there's only eleven chapters when there's twelve parts.

Derek is sitting in his office staring blankly at his laptop screen when the first sounds of gunfire reached his ears. It takes him a moment to identify it, longer that he thinks it should have, considering the city he lives in, but the sound is familiar and unmistakable, and Derek pales at the implication. 

He told Erica to call in sick tomorrow, checked the schedule to make sure Isaac was off, and had enough paperwork piled up to explain spending the majority of the day in his office. All set up for tomorrow, the day Stiles had informed him he'd be leaving. 

The alarm sounds, blaring and loud, and the voices of guards reach his ears and a panicked line of fear courses through him. This wasn't the plan, this was much too early, much too violent, and the knowledge that something has gone wrong seeps into him. 

Derek stands abruptly, pushing his chair back with a rough clatter as he rushes towards his office entrance. The guards are authorized to use lethal force during a breakout, on both visitors and patients alike, and the ones on duty tonight aren't ones Derek checked the schedule for. Aren't the ones he'd warned Stiles about. 

His heavy office door is locked, an automatic safety measure when the break-out alarm sounds, and Derek has to take a moment to fish out his keys from his white jacket. His hands are surprisingly steady, even as his mind rushes with worry and panic, trying to remember the face of the guard Stiles headbutted, if he saw him patrolling the halls this afternoon, when payback can be hidden behind protocol. There's ice in his veins and a painful edge to the pounding of his heart at the thought of Stiles waiting, locked up tight in room by himself while any camera outage will be blamed on the break-out. Slight and vulnerable and unhinged enough to spit in the face of death while laughing through it. 

He has no weapon, nothing but his badge to get him through the locked doors, his office keys, and too telling doctor's coat draped over his shoulders like a target, but he's surprisingly unafraid for himself. Even as the sound of machine gun fire and the faint, cut off yells of people he both knows and doesn't falling victim isn't enough to deter him. 

Derek opens the door and heads towards the cells 

\- 

There's a staggering bit of relief at the sound of Stiles' unhinged laughter, echoing down the hall as Derek makes his way towards his cell. 

His feet speed up, rushing him towards that chilling sound sending delicious shivers along his spine, but he still needs to see. Needs to set his eyes on the man to ensure he's safe and unharmed. 

His hand reaches the door, the other already on his badge when he notices it pushed open. He pulls it fully open with a bit of worried alarm slithering through him, tainting his newfound relief as his gaze trying to take everything in at once. 

Dr. Morrell lies unconscious on the bolted down bed, the leather straps along the edge tying her down at the elbows and an ECT machine on the floor next to her. There are burn marks on her temples, red and almost delicate against her skin. Along one wall slumps Dr. Martin, legs splayed out in front of her and one heel off, the foot looking small and venerable in her ruined hose. Her red hair falls like a curtain to brush against her skirt, hiding her face and obscuring her chest until Derek can't tell if she's breathing. A guard he doesn't know the name of, but who he recognizes from passing in the halls stares up the ceiling, a pool of congealed blood around his head and eyes blank in death. 

Stiles stands a few feet from him, hospital issues clothes slightly mussed and gaze steady on the unmoving Dr. Martin. His colorful bat is in his hands, resting against his shoulder, and Derek gets his first in person look at the intricate designs etched into the surface, married only on the end where it's shiny and red and thickly dripping. 

Stiles turns as the door opens with a soft clang, entire face lighting up as he sees who's interrupted his play time, and Derek's treacherous heart flips at the sight, an answering smile tugging the corners of his lips. 

"Doc! Didn't think you were going to join us." Even Stiles' voice sounds lighter, infused with a dark glee as he grins, dots of red sprinkled almost delicately on one of his cheeks and creasing at his smile. "You were supposed to stay in your office," he adds, taking a step forward over the cold tile and waving one finger at him like he's a naughty child. 

"I thought you weren't leaving until tomorrow?" Derek blurts, eyes widening in a kind of betrayed shock as he realizes this is all too fast to be Stiles taking advantage of another inmate's break-out. 

"Derek, Derek, Derek," Stiles taunts, moving just close enough to touch, head tilting to the side and putting the drops of red on pale, fragile skin under the overhead light until they are harsh and glowing. He's smiling, a beautifully manic grin that speaks of dark joy and too painful clarity that cuts and bleeds. Things just out of Derek's reach, but so close he can taste it. 

Outside a blast goes off, debris hitting close enough to the door that Derek feels the grit against his back as he takes a step further in. Stiles doesn’t even flinch. 

"They're almost here," Stiles says, glancing away for a moment before looking back at Derek expectantly. 

Desperation claws at his throat, cracking his chest and exposing it to bleed out all over the floor. He doesn't want to say goodbye, not yet. Not ever. 

He reaches out with one hand, making a shocking bit of contact against the bare skin for Stiles' forearm before he curls his fingers in a light tug, trying to pull him closer. Stiles doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge that bit of contact, just watches him with that same intense, expectant stare. 

More rapid gunfire, coming closer to the cell and the shouts of other inmates become louder, more insistent that they be let out too. Someone screams, high and loud and cut off with another _pop pop pop_ of machine gunfire and Derek can't stop the quick, furtive glance behind him. 

"Question," Stiles says in that soft enticing way of his, voice low and sending melted heat through Derek's veins. He twists, forcing Derek to drop his arm as he takes a step back. Derek wants to follow, but something feels off, like he failed an unspoken test or hasn't yet earned the right to establish contact. 

"The guard." Stiles indicates with his bat, dripping slowly with tacky red lines and obscuring his name on the one side. "You don't know him. I checked." He gives Derek a wink, whiskey gaze making promises as he peeks at him through the shadows and causing Derek's heart to twist. "Does his death mean anything to you?" He looks genuinely curious, open and wondering, head tilting to the side as he moves slowly a few feet away. 

The answer bubbles up, seeping into him with a steady rise as he looks at the body. He knows. In a way he's always known, in that cold severed area that lead him past the handful of bodies in the halls with nothing but an annoyance that they were in his way. 

_Don't lie to me._

"I don't care either way," he says finally, his voice nearly as dead as the guard. He looks up, sees Stiles still watching. 

Familiar desperation tightens its hold on him, leaving the frantic buzz of energy dancing through his veins and squeezing his lungs. Metal coats his tongue, feeling useless and too thick in his mouth, and he blinks rapidly as he tries to think of a way to show him, to prove how much he wants this. Wants Stiles. 

'You're everything,' and 'I'd do anything for you,' are not enough. Able to be muttered by anyone at any time with all the permeance of tissue paper. But they've always played the word game, letting hidden meanings come through under metaphors and double guesses. 

"I love you," he says softly, the worlds falling from his lips with such ease. The image comes, sudden and undeniable, a bit of truth and clarity in a dimly lit back room and a blood-stained blade. "But more than that, I _know_ you. I see you in every line of this room, in the bodies at the pier." He pauses, taking a breath before continuing. "I see the lack of you in the most recent bombing." 

Stiles blinks, still unmoving. Waiting. But there's something in the way he holds himself, an anticipation bubbling under his skin. 

_She'd been so surprised to see him, had said his name with such shock._

"You're it," he whispers, eyes wide and hoping they say the rest. Stiles is forever, if he'll have him. And maybe, Derek thinks, even if he won't. 

There's a moment, thick and drawn, fragile in the space between them before Stiles gaze shutters and brightens, edges of his mouth turning up in the beginning of that smile Derek loves so much. Something akin to joy infuses that whiskey gaze. 

"There you are," Stiles breathes, taking a step towards him and Derek's heart untwists. He reaches out, looking at Derek with a fierce pride that leaves him dizzy. "Knew you'd be perfect." His grin is wide and just as breathtaking as the first time. 

Then the bat swings toward him and the world goes black. 

\- 

Derek blinks open fuzzy eyes to the soft and insistent pounding in his head headache and a blurry face above him 

"Glad to see you're awake," Dr. Deaton says, the smallest of smiles curling up the corners of his lips. "Ms. Reyes was quite worried when she didn't find you in your office." 

He blinks, sharpening the last of the edges of his sight before pushing to sit up. A strong hand holds him back down. 

"Not just yet." 

"I'm fine," he says, trying to shrug the doctor off. 

"I've no doubt," Dr. Deaton replies steadily. He pulls a pin light from his pocket, shining it in Derek's eyes. "I'm going to ask you a few questions." 

"Where's Stiles?" Derek says, cutting the other man off and getting to the root of the growing worry niggling at the back of his head. 

Dr. Deaton takes a moment to turn off the light, tucking back in his pocket before answering. "I ran into our 'Sheriff' on my way down. It seems he's taken the liberty of releasing himself from care." 

"He hates that name," Derek says automatically, mind whirling in a frantic rush as a desperate denial rise within him. Stiles couldn't have just left him behind. 

He answers the questions Dr. Deaton poses by rote, mind frantic, going over every word of the plan to see if he missed something. 

Seeming satisfied, Dr. Deaton helps him sit up. 

"Any dizziness? Light-headed?" 

"No," he says quietly, mind still churning over the impossible. 

_He never promised to take you with him._

The thought is bitter, sitting on the back of his tongue and melting the edges of the desperation, leaving a bleak numbness in its wake. There's a ball of ice at its core, radiating a hollow chill outward as he takes in the room. Dr. Morrell is still laying on the bed, straps undone but eyes closed. A nurse is checking her vitals, one he recognizes but can't put a name too. 

"I'd like to get a better look at that cut," Dr. Deaton is telling him, and Derek doesn't move. Doesn't protest when the man pokes and prods at the side of his head. 

It's nearly half an hour later when Erica finds him, after the medical doctor has given him a diagnosis of a possible small concussion and treated the short split in his skin, just above his temple where the skull is hard and thick. 

"You almost scared me, bossman," she all but growls, socking him in the shoulder when she catches up to him. He tries to muster up an eyeroll, but it feels like too much effort and he blinks blankly at her instead before continue towards the front of the building. 

She falls into step with him, studying the side of his head and Derek only realizes how light her previous words were when she suddenly snarls, "I'm going to kill him." 

He stops abruptly, feeling a trickle of alarm in that cold, numb center. She pauses next to him, teeth grinding and gaze screaming murder. 

"Don't," he says, opening his mouth to add something before shutting it. 

She looks at him, a hard-eyed study, and whatever she sees in his face makes her cross her arms. "I should," she bites out, leaning against the wall before she continues in that too casual way she sometimes does when she's trying, and failing, to be subtle, "Whittmore showed me the footage." 

There's a connection he's missing, something unspoken in her words that he wants to dig at more when the implication of what she says punches through him. 

"Footage?" he repeats like an idiot, blinking at her before he rushes forward. "You mean, the camera in Stiles' room was still running?" 

Hope, treacherous and painful tries to peek out at him and it takes everything he has to keep it from filling the numb place in him with its bright glow. 

"Yeah," she says slowly, unsure of what he was asking. "I mean, there was no sound, but they didn't knock out the cameras until after- Hey!" she calls when he suddenly turns, taking off at a near sprint back towards his office. "I thought you were going home!" 

He doesn't answer, can hear Erica's steps as she hurries after him, but can't bring himself to pause long enough to tell her he'll meet her outside. 

The halls leading back to the private offices pass by in a blur, each step pulsing hope harder and harder through his veins. Snippets of conversations, questions and requests -always requests, always options, always a _choice_ \- all rushing through his head. Things done in private, behind locked doors, or set in just so as not to be caught. Because Derek has a boss, a career, and no one questions the doctor who gets attacked on camera in a breakout. 

His office door is still locked, but he doesn't let himself think about it, losing precious seconds as his fumbles out the key with trembling hand. It feels like Derek's future is behind just behind the door, because isn't it? Hasn't it been up to him this entire time? 

It looks just as it did when he left, and his heart pounds painfully as his gaze darts back and forth until... there. Sitting in the middle of his desk, on top the paperwork he had set aside for tomorrow, is a pale post-it note, two white, over-the-counter pain pills placed on top. A familiar handwriting breaks the last the ice in his chest, his lips splitting into a smile none of his co-workers could see without suggesting he undergo a psyche eval. 

_See you soon, doc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whew* This fic is done! It **does** have a sequel, because this stupid fic started out as 10 chapters with Stiles' break out being the half-way mark, but that is mostly still in its previous state and has just begun alterations to fit what was actually published in this one. It may be a bit before I get around to posting that one.
> 
> Plus, I saw the prompts for Sterek Bingo and my muse went "THAT ONE!" at the Fairy Tale prompt and so I'm writing that. I **thought** it'd be a really long one-shot, just something quick to pound out before working once more on either _Baby, We're a Cliché_ part two or the previously mentioned sequel... I'm at 3,986 words and Derek hasn't even **met** Stiles yet. They are barely in the same town AND I did what I usually do and wrote random scenes in chronological order, skipping the parts I was struggling with and/or didn't feel like writing right then. If my writing history has taught me anything, it's to double my word count for the final project. To summarize, I'm 8k and _maybe_ 1/4th into this thing, making the final project estimated at being close to 32k! It probably won't be done in time for Sterek Bingo, which I'm fine with since my muse wants to ignore all the other prompts (except for Accidental Baby Acquisition, but for some reason my muse is insisting that Scott is the one to find and raise a baby. And of course the Stiles would play Other Daddy, because Scott &Stiles = Best Bro\Platonic Life Partners ever, which puts them at the center and Derek and Stiles _so **not** _platonic relationship as purely background. So that's out... for now), but I'm greatly enjoying writing Derek as the hero-Princess of my favorite fairy tale. Go get your man, Derek!__
> 
> ____
> 
> __
> 
> I also read the first book in the _Sandman Slim_ series and must have had Teen Wolf on the brain shortly after because now I'm working on a Sterek version where Stiles drags himself back from Hell to avenge Scott, meets Derek, falls in love, and the two live out their fucked-up lives together. It fits a surprising number of Sterek Bingo themes, so who knows, maybe I will have something to post for it come May. 
> 
> ____
> 
> Stay tuned for the epilogue! And if you feel like it, wish me a happy birthday for the weekend. :)
> 
> ____


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets some old friends, and makes a few things clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this before May, and Sterek Bingo, officially begins. Hoping to get a work or two complete and posted for that. 
> 
> This is sort of a combination Epilogue for Intervening Processes, and a Prologue for the sequel... who's working title is Accepting the Process, but I'm not sure if I like it yet or not.

The club is dusty and dark and nearly impossible to get into unless you're meeting someone for less than legal business or have the cash and connections to bribe someone in the know. The perfect place for young, rich assholes to visit in an effort to rub elbows the less savory sorts of Beacon Hills. At least up front. The back half is an entirely different matter. 

Stiles sort of loves the place. The music is kept just loud enough to not be a constant distraction, the lights at a wonderful shine of mid-dusk brightness, casting shadows that tempt and tease him with their shapes, and the crowds back here are always just thick enough to be interesting without overwhelming his more sensitive senses. ADD and a natural talent for observation can be a bitch sometimes. 

Still, he'd rather be doing other things. Things involving a big house with fun security and a certain broody doctor who foolishly keeps his interior doors unlocked. 

He chuckles to himself, images playing through his mind as he pushes his way forward, looking for the familiar blonde who has some things to say. He finds her waiting by the bar, lips painted red and hair artfully curled, an avenging angel in a leather bustier and black boots, and just as out of place. She's the wrong note struck in a crowded room, never quiet able to be pinpointed. 

Stiles laughs quietly to himself as he moves towards her, watching the man on her other side trying to work up his nerve to buy her drink. He props his elbows against the counter's edge on her opposite side and leans in close. 

"A little birdie said you were looking for me," he half-whispers. A fun little lie that dances between them. Erica whips her head towards him, already mid-glare when he continues, tilting his head back before turning to grin at her in full, "Of course, birdies say a lot of things these days." 

"You're lucky I don't kick your ass, Stilinski," she growls at him. 

He laughs full out at that, head thrown back and memories from another life dancing in the shadows of his vision. The bartender drops a glass before him, filling it with some dark liquid he didn't order. 

"Just like old times," he replies with a flash of teeth. She's one of the few people left alive who knew him _before._ Not much, not truly, and nowhere near whole, but a small silver of a facet that sparked in him and softens him towards her. Brought to life in an accident of fate where she noticed him and he didn't her, as is the way with adolescents with fleeting infatuations who cross paths in adult filled spaces. 

She bumps her shoulder against his, familiar and slightly affectionate and he could almost remember then, the sound she made when Mrs. McCall came to fetch him from her patient's room. 

"He got your note," she says suddenly, her voice almost warm. Because she considers him a friend, he remembers. Wonderfully foolish girl, bright and blazing. Burn herself all up if she's not careful. "Wouldn't stop smiling for days. I think he framed the damn thing." 

Now wouldn't that be something. 

"And how is my dear doctor?" Just the taste of the title sends a little buzz through him, popping in his veins and mixing curls of satisfaction and anticipation low in his gut. "Still waiting for me?" 

She shoots him a glare, lips pursing before she bites out, "You know he is." A shake of her head, looking all the world like she's going to cry for a moment before it passes and she looks at him again. "Is this a game? Because if it is-" 

"Of course it's a game," Stiles scoffs, tilting back until he's standing fully once more. "It's _my_ game." His voice drops as he narrows his gaze at her, hissing out a warning history and the smallest sliver of affection dictate he bestow. "And I didn't invite you to play." 

For all that Erica knew him before, Stiles sometimes forgets that she knows him better _now._ He's reminded when the fear, delicious and oh so fleeting, peeking out from her eyes is eclipsed by something thoughtful. Nothing kills fear like understanding, and Stiles watches in something too close to relief as it cascades into her gaze. 

"Did you kill Kate Argent?" 

Stiles pauses, thoughts twisting into a new direction at her piercing stare, feeling a little thrill dance down his spine, tingling in the tips of his fingers and tugging the edges of his lips up up up. She doesn't _know,_ his doc's bestie all locked out of his little secret. He feels almost giddy at this reveal, remembering when the news came to him at Eichen in all its high-res glory by one of Scott's little pups. He wondered then, saw in the lines and slashes a new and fragile signature sprung in his own suggestions but he hadn't been sure. Not until he stood before the doc and saw it written plain as day in stubble and shadows. It was just as beautiful as he'd hoped. 

_You never forget your first._

He shakes his head with exaggerated care, because who is he to explain the joke? He watches confusion mar her features before she shakes it off, and wonders if she'll stay when Derek reveals the blood on his hands. He hopes so.

"I had plans for her," he says slowly, tasting the words, bitter and sweet. So many plans, all stretched and pretty for the woman who broke his doctor so beautifully. 

And then left him all alone after. He grits his teeth, mood suddenly souring. Discarded in the dirt for Stiles to find, and what an unexpected find, he thinks with a small chuckle. 

_Are the mood swings deliberate or are you just fucking with me?_

A fierce bit of longing stabs through him, nearly physically painful and Stiles rubs at his chest as he pulls his drink towards him. Friend or foe? Has he made enough of a splash create either in Beacon's seedy underground? 

"I thought it might be you," Erica says, bringing him back from the sharp road of memory. "After seeing you in Derek's office, how you looked at him..." She gives a small shrug, glancing away, anger adding hidden beauty to her features. "I hope she rots in hell." 

"Still," he says, voice gone silky smooth as his mind ticks over her words and eyes going half-mast to hide puzzles and pieces in shadows. "Killing seven people in a single move..." He whistles, long and low and testing. 

"Ten," she snaps, all but barking the word at him. "People always forget about the Boyds. There were twelve people in that fire. Only two made it out alive." 

He hisses through his teeth, a quick intake of breath as he looks at Erica with this new insight. Of course, he thinks, big butler Boyd playing man servant to the only pseudo-family he has left and all but engaged to the woman standing next to Stiles. Did he know this, or were the facts scattered, waiting for Stiles to click them together with little snaps? His memory can be a funny thing, picking and choosing what it deems to be of future use. 

"Really?" he murmurs, still watching as Erica begins to squirm under his gaze. "I've heard rumors. That Peter woke up different. Humanity all burnt up with his little boy." New he may be, but Stiles is not without his connections. Other ties to the highs and lows of Beacon Hills, willing to feed his curiosity. Erica may have been content to spitting warnings at him about hurting her beloved bestie, but she's known him too long to think he didn't have other resources both in and out of the hospital's walls. 

"Derek says Peter's always been something of a schemer," she replies. She believes that, he realizes, taking his doc's words at face value. He grins, wide and with teeth. He'll just have to ask the man himself. What's it been, a week? Less, he thinks, but time is a man-made thing, irrelevant and broken. The ache in his chest though, that means something. 

"And what have you been telling the good doctor?" he asks, curious and sly. He doesn't own Erica's loyalty, was surprised she kept her mouth shut when she saw him dragged into Eichen, and though there was a time when he could have claimed it, had he not been so blinded by grief and caught up in anger -nothings really changed, he thinks with a chuckle- he's somehow savagely glad that she'd already given it to Derek before Stiles ever reentered the picture. 

"That you were my cousin." She smiles, the edges soft and a little wistful. 

He raises a brow at that, watching her with open curiosity at that marking, the claiming of him as _family._ The chosen kind over the mistakes often made by God and blood. One only has to look at his own to see it. He has to fight the sneer threatening to twist his lips, anger bubbling up thick and syrupy-sweet. God must be especially cruel, or especially stupid, to have thrust him into the arms he did. 

She shrugs at his unspoken question, a wiry quirk of her red painted lips twisting the edges. "He noticed I was... distracted. I had to tell him something." She snags his untouched drink, downing half the contents before setting it back down with a sharp clack. He hopes it wasn't poisoned, that'd be a bitch to explain to his doc and, he admits grudgingly, he'd rather Erica remain alive. "It was as close to the truth as I could get without giving your name. I just hope-" she cuts off, glancing in the middle distance as her thoughts turn troubled, marring her features in internal turmoil. It’s a good look on her, all that fire and sass broken into the shadows of despair, but it sits wrong with Stiles anyway. 

Fragile little Erica, he muses, mouthing the words to feel their shape. They bring to mind IV tubes and bruised eyes, and he shakes them off. 

She turns back to him with a eyeroll, a hard line to her jaw and the shadows chased away by that inner blazing confidence she wears with an ease that belies the difficulty it took to build. 

"Your bodyguard's here," she informs him dryly. 

Stiles turns to look over his shoulder, just able to make out a familiar, small figure shoving her way through the crowd. 

"And that's my cue," Erica mutters with a sneering glare as the woman smoothly steps up to the bar. 

"Claws away, sweetheart," Lydia says sweetly, eyes cold as she moves around to Stiles' side. "I'd hate to get blood on my new shoes." 

"By all means, _doctor_ ," Erica hisses, "we wouldn't want you bleeding." But Stiles can see the way she's squares her shoulders, the shift of her weight onto the toes of her feet, knows Lydia makes note of it too. 

Erica glances between them, jaw clenching before she pins Stiles with a look. "I meant what I said. Don't be a stranger." The 'too him' is loud in the silence, echoing in the space and creeping into the crevices of his mind. He smiles, bright and with teeth, at the kitten threat in those lioness words. 

He feels more than sees Lydia shift, a cold presence in a small, pretty package along his side. 

"Ohhh," he drags out slowly, leaning towards her until he's giving the word life against Erica's skin, "he hasn't seen a thing yet." He bites the last word with a clack of his teeth, watching that gaze go alarmed and angry until his next words reach her ear. "He chose this," _chose me,_ he thinks, or at least he will. Stiles refuses to contemplate the alternative. "No take-backs." He leans back with a slow slide against the counter, winking when Erica's face comes into focus once more. 

She gives him one last thoughtful look before she lets out a harsh rush of air, body relaxing and Stiles knows he's won this round, feeling wonderfully pleased as she turns to walk away. Getting your significant other's bestie's approval is an important step in any new relationship. 

"She's not afraid of you," Lydia says matter of factly, watching Erica push her way through the crowd. 

"Is that a bad thing?" 

Lydia's always thought in clean lines and ultimate goals. Solve the equation and simplify the solution. A direct contrast to the tangled maze of Stiles' thoughts. It's a valuable trait to have in a companion. 

She smiles, charming and beautiful and no more real than any of her others. He saw her real smile once, harsh as ice and just as cutting, while he looked up at her with blood on his cheeks and salt on his tongue. 

_Trust me, darling, it's only going to get worse._

"She's a variable." 

Picking up what's left of his drink, Lydia dips the tip of her right pink nail into what's left of the dark liquid and takes a delicate sniff. Satisfied, she takes the glass for herself and sips at it. 

"Only too you," he says with an amused smile. Her eyes flash, not quite surprise, but there's no spark of fight in there either. 

Erica wasn't that far off the mark with calling Lydia his 'bodyguard,' although it implies a certain inclination towards self-sacrifice Stiles doesn't believe she's capable of. Lydia has and will kill for him. Not by order or request, but to eliminate threats she sees coming. Things she believes may remove him from her life before she is ready to lose him. 

For all her brilliance, Lydia doesn't want to be alone again. They have their differences, but their cores were cut from the same cloth, separated by the cosmos only to find each other as bumbling children just discovering exactly how _different_ they are from the rest of society. At one time he thought that made them soulmates, with all the foolishly romantic notions that came with it. He knows better now. 

"And the doctor," she says finally, satisfied he knows what he's doing with Erica. "The Hale, he's going to need to be dealt with as well." 

All the happy warmth in him bleeds away, leaving that ever-yawning pit of icy black tar to rear up and seep through him, freezing all the white noise thoughts and pops of bright, bubbling insight until he's whittled down to a singular focus. With a long stretch of time, too thin and echoing with each flutter of movement, he turns towards his second oldest friend and the only person on the planet who can look into his soul and see the kin to her's. 

"Derek," he says in a low, soft tone, "is mine." He's poised, balancing on that precipice and the great void below, letting all the swirling complexities behind that simple statement seep from him and into her. 

Green eyes widen ever so slightly, something pausing to reassess behind that gaze. Lydia came into his life when others had already claimed first dibs on his affections, and he slotted her in below them with ease. It'd be interesting, something he'd considered the first time he stood in a room with the two of them, seeing her reaction to losing that place to another. Someone she considers so beneath him. Worse, beneath _her_. 

Her opinion means something, second only to Scott for some time now, but on this he feels unwavering. Thoughts gone crystal clear and direct. It's all so simple, an anchor point in the center of the chaos that is his mind. 

It would break something in him to have to kill her, he thinks in that detached pool of unmoving calm. He watches her flip through the options he's left her, and the subsequent paths they'll lead down, weighing each accordingly and feels the echo of her loss already being accepted. He loved her once upon a time, in a way he thought burned out of him. Until now. 

Lydia hmm's, lips pursing as she nods once and Stiles feels that cold, focused bit of tension uncoil. It's not a surrender, not yet. One day she may wake up and decide that Stiles is a sacrifice she's willing to make, a bit of her past she no longer needs. Or maybe curiosity will get the better of one of them and they'll decide to test who's the bigger monster, but for now Lydia is content to let things be. 

Stiles laughs, head thrown back and spine curving as the last of the tension eases from him and world rushes back in too sharp details, bubbling and bulging around him. A few people nearby stop and stare, like he's an escaped mental patient, and Stiles can only smile at them, snapping teeth, as he tapers off. 

"Gotta go," he mutters at Lydia, already pushing himself from the bar. He's late for a doctor's appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wanted to end this right after the reveal of Lydia as Stiles' bodyguard/Mr. Frost (plus another, because Lydia is a villain in her own right in many ways) but then they started talking and revealing more and more of the connection between them and I just couldn't seem to stop. I almost deleted their conversation and left myself with a less personally satisfying ending but decided screw it half-way through and figured this can count as both an epilogue and a taste of the sequel. So, if you enjoyed this peek into Stiles' world, you'll like the sequel. If you want to keep his motives and history a mystery, it may not be for you. In a way, this story was about Derek getting to know Stiles as he is now, while part two is about Derek getting to know who he was and how he fits into a greater scheme. (Plus, Scott. Because I love me some Stiles and Scott bromance) 
> 
> I'm so excited about getting to reveal Erica's connection to Stiles. They're not exactly friends, not from Stiles' end anyways, but she's someone he reluctantly cares about in his own way. She was never his man on the inside, I hope I made that clear, but she was a connection between Stiles and Derek long before they met and was someone who was watching what was unfolding between them with an understanding of who both of them are, and one of the only people who wouldn't, and didn't, disapprove of the relationship. 
> 
> I in no way mean to imply that either Claudia or Noah mistreated Stiles. That line about God being cruel putting him with them is more about how this Stiles views the loss of a loved one. He doesn't understand why someone who loves like does, who can be broken from loving like he does, was given parents that would be taken from him.


	13. Deleted Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A group of deleted scenes...just as the title suggests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The **bold** bits are a quick explanation on each scene. I tried to put them in chronological order.

**This begins when Derek is still contemplating hurting the guard Stiles headbutted. In this version, Erica was the one to bring up that Derek had ignored a co-worker and the person who was attacked's health in favor of rushing off to be with Stiles. It's small and doesn't do a lot, which is why I cut it, but I was really into wanting to show glimpses into Erica's struggles at not telling Derek about knowing Stiles**

"What was his name?" he asks her. She brought it up, attempting to needle poke him into guilt he doesn't feel. 

"Not sure," she says slowly, distracted by the continuing problems between her family. "I can find out if you want." 

He wants, but he can't bring himself to say it. "I-" He stops, frowns as he looks down at his paperwork before him. 

"You need to stop bringing your work home." 

He glowers at her as he looks up again, watching as Erica files at one of her nails. 

"My couch is much more comfortable than my desk chair." 

Erica rolls her eyes, twisting until she lands her heeled feet on the carpet. "It's also probably worth more than all of the furniture at Eichen." She looks away, the teasing smile dying on her lips before she turns back to study him. 

She opens her mouth before closing it with a frown. 

"Daehler escaped," she says finally. "Happened last night. Not sure if they told you yet." 

"No," he replies, watching her as she fidgets with the nail file. "I'll probably see a report on it in the morning." That's how things usually go. He'll get an e-mail sometime in the early hours letting him know of the change in his schedule and a reminder to go over the notes and fill out the proper paperwork. If the patient was particularly violent or known for revenge fantasies, they'll remind him to contact the police and request personal security. 

Erica nods slowly, the crease between her brows deepening and Derek opens his mouth to ask before she cuts him off as she stands. 

"Boyd should be back," she says. She winks with a sultry smile as she turns towards the door. "Don't wait up for us." 

"I never do," he calls after her. Worry and affection mix together. There's something that's bothering her, that much is obvious, but Erica has always been one to handle her own problems. And she wouldn't thank him to meddle just yet.

-

**Another scene after Kate's death, where Erica tries to get him to celebrate and brings up his new crush. I decided that since she knows who the crush is already, she wouldn't bring it up and then the rest of the scene became redundant.**

Erica tries to talk him into taking a personal day the next morning, voice loud despite the amount she drank the night before. 

_"Boyd's off and you know Isaac has probably already called-in sick."_

Derek continues on his way towards his garage and waiting car. 

_"Come on,_ " she cajoles over the phone. _"You deserve a day. We can spend it in our sweats eating junk food and watching trashy TV."_

"Many of my patients are in a delicate time. I need to be there." 

It's a lie, no getting around it. Not a single one of his patients are less than emotionally leveled off for the time being, quite a few even being on the verge of joining the hospital's general population. Except one, the one that matters. 

He's done lying to himself, even if he's not to the rest of the world. Stiles has set himself up with enough evidence that Derek can convincingly make the argument he's doing this for his patient's benefit, but he wants to see him. It's been two days and he misses him. 

He absorbs the knowledge, the feeling shuttering through him and landing somewhere in his chest as he let's himself accept it. 

There's a long pause before Erica speaks. 

_"He better be worth it."_

"Who?" Derek asks, pausing in his hall and quickly glancing around like he expects someone to be eavesdropping. 

_"The man who's got you all distracted and,"_ there's a soft rustle in the background, _"even more broody than usual."_

"What does-" he sputters slightly, blinking at how exactly how right and how way off Erica is. "How do you always know there's someone?" 

He can practically hear the smile in her voice and he knows he's forgiven for refusing to skip work with her after he's little confession. _"I'm your best friend. I know everything."_

_Not this time,_ he thinks. She wouldn't be letting him off so easy if she did. 

**Neither of those scenes are all that great, but I liked them enough to not completely delete them. There's something about them chatting that clearly liked since I wrote a lot of it.**  
-

**  
An alternate scene following the choking moment. Their conversation took a turn and I ultimately didn't like how upset Stiles made Derek (although I felt his reasonings behind it were sound, and if took enough time to bring them back around than I may have stuck with it) and so I rewrote it and took a different route. But I still like this little bit of writing. Despite it being so short.**

"Her throat was slit," he whisper-croaks. 

"And tell me, Derek," Stiles says in mocking seriousness, "how does that make you feel?" 

"The woman who seduced me and then killed my family is dead," he bites out, irritation stirring as the bits of his past are mixed up in the rawness of the present. "How do you think?" 

"Did she leave you behind after?" Stiles asks with a harsh bit of mocking. And Derek feels it stab through him, Stiles' lips twisting in a sneer. "Set you all up and then just walked away?" 

It sets his teeth on edge, a sudden flash of pain and anger, with a twisting sort of desperation. 

"She tried to kill me after," he practically croaks, feeling the anger give way to the clawing desire to make Stiles understand. To get his _approval._ Familiar and choking and he can't be going through this again, falling into the same traps, listening to the same lies. 

"Some people are idiots like that," Stiles replies, suddenly soft and soothing, eyes hidden in shadows as the pen's constant movement seems to stop, dropping lower with his voice. "They get so caught up in how pretty someone is when they break that they fail to see how gorgeous they are all broken."

-

**This was the original break-out scene, before Derek decided to go and realize he had fallen head over heels in love with Stiles, and before he informed me that Kate was dead and he killed her. The break out happened originally at the middle portion of this fic, when Stiles and Derek where in a very different place. Derek had yet to really choose Stiles and Stiles hadn't decided if Derek was more than a toy to keep him entertained at Eichen House yet.**

Dr. Martin lies unconscious on the examine table, straps tying her down at the elbows and the ECT machine on the table next to her. A nurse is lying half between Derek and the redhead, a thin pool of blood surrounding his head in a red halo. 

Stiles stands a few feet from him, shirtless and gaze steady on Derek, but for once his eyes aren't laughing at some shared joke between them. His bat is back in his hands, resting against his shoulder. The end is shiny and red and dripping. 

Derek looks away, sick to his stomach. 

"Don't start getting squeamish on me now, doc." 

He looks back up, locking eyes with an oddly calm mien on Stiles' features. It was like looking at a stranger, an icy stillness to him that Derek had never before seen in the young man. Once warm eyes gone cold and empty even as he gazes at him. 

"You knew this was going to happen," Stiles continues. 

"No."

"Stop lying." There's no joke, no sing-song nature. The words are bland, dead and steady. They could belong to any man off the street. 

Derek doesn't flinch, but it's a close thing. 

"You knew," Stiles continues taking a step forward over the cold tile. "You're lying to yourself just as much me." 

"I knew," he says carefully, "that you were going to leave." 

Stiles laughs. Not the mischievous sound from their sessions before, no, this is cold and cruel and without any of that spark that had drawn him in. Dangerous in a way Derek hadn't let himself think of Stiles as being capable of. Not towards him. 

"I didn't know you were going to do this!" Derek snaps, one hand coming out to jerk to where nurse Donovan lays, dead eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. 

"You're angry at me." There's no emotion in his words. A slight curiosity, but nothing more. "Why? I helped you." 

"Helped me?" Derek sputters. "All you've done is lie to me. Played with my mind, trying to confuse me and, and-" 

"And what?" Stiles snaps, stalking closer. Outside a blast goes off, debris hitting the observation glass on one wall. Stiles doesn’t even flinch. "Made you think. Made you question what you know. Made you see. Isn't that why you're really mad? Because I took away your perfect little world and left you spinning in the harsh reality." 

Derek growls in frustration, jaw clenching. More rapid gunfire, coming closer to the procedure room he and Stiles are in. 

"This isn't clarity," he snarls. Desperation claws at his throat, squeezes his chest as he looks into cold, calculating eyes that had once reminded him of happy childhood memories. 

"Isn't it?" Stiles asks, head tilting to the side. And for one shining moment Derek is sent back to the maximum security room, with a metal table between them and the clever back and forth. Someone screams, high and loud and cut off with another _pop pop pop_ of machine gun fire and the moment shatters. 

"No," Derek says firmly. 

"Derek, Derek, Derek." His name feels like a mockery on Stiles' lips. 

Stiles tsks, head shaking as he moves to the side, going around the body of a guard Derek doesn't know and those empty eyes shuttering for a moment behind dark lashes before he continues. 

"I told you not to lie. Come on," he coaxes. He gives him a sly look out of the corner of his eye, suddenly the man that Derek knows, all secret smiles inviting him to share in the joke. He indicates to the body behind him. "You don't know him. Does his death even matter to you?" He looks genuinely curious, open and wondering. 

The answers shocks through him, reverberating in that part of him that finds Stiles so alluring, that pulled him into this field, this hospital when his name and money could have sent him anywhere in the world. It rises to his lips, curling on his tongue and Stiles sees it, a dark, pleased smile creasing his cheeks before Derek shoves the answer back down. 

"I want to help you," he says calmly, focusing on keeping his voice steady and even. "That's a truth. And if you want, I'll help you find an exit. I'd prefer it if you didn't try and kill anyone on the way." 

There's an emergency isolation room not three doors down, only accessible with a key card. Stiles may be batshit crazy and wielding a bat, but Derek's got roughly fifty pounds on the guy and the element of surprise. It's the least he could do, he thinks, seeing Dr. Martin lying so still on the exam table out of the corner of his eye. 

"Promises promises," Stiles taunts, still moving slow and steady around the room. 

"Trust me, I can get us out of here. No tricks, no mind games, just you and me." 

"But that's my favorite game." Stiles taps a finger to the side of his head, stepping within arm's reach. "Did you really think you can beat me at it?" 

Stiles grins, sudden and wide and just as breathtaking as the first time, and for a brief moment Derek has hope. Then the bat swings toward him and the world goes black. 

\- 

When Derek opens his eyes, all he can see is the blurry mass of gray. It takes him three hard blinks before it clears, and only one before he registers the pounding in his skull. 

"How you feeling, bossman?" 

"Erica?" he croaks, blinking up at his long-time friend. 

"Idiot," she says with an affectionate shake of her head. "Head still hurt?" She brushes her fingers against his hair, brows drawn in concern. 

"Oh goody," Stiles says happily, coming into view. "He's awake." He looks at Erica with a grin. "See?" He says in a manner of someone continuing an ongoing conversation. "The doc's all better. Didn't even need you to play nursemaid." 

"I warned you," she hisses with an angry shake of her head. "I told you not to hurt him." 

"No comments on the nursemaid?" Stiles asks, sounding gleeful. "You are mad." 

"Of course I'm mad," she seethes. "Scott warned you the police were watching the docks and now this," she makes a sharp gesture at Derek. "You're lucky I don't kick your ass." 

"I'll play with you any day you want." He winks obscenely at her but his eyes are cold and Derek feels the insane urge tell Erica to back off. 

**Yeah, so that's a different bit from the original. I loved the scene between Stiles and Derek, but when I tried to alter it, it felt too much like a step back in their relationship at that point. So instead I rewrote it. I like this one better than what I ended up with, but Derek and Stiles were too attached to each other for me to make it work. Also, that was before I decided Stiles would have already killed anyone who killed his dad, and so Nurse Donovan was deleted all together. (Yes, that was supposed to be Stiles getting revenge while at Eichen against Donovan.) As for the following scene, which technically was the beginning of the next chapter, originally Stiles took Derek with him when he left, Erica insisted she come along, and Derek gets to meet some of Stiles associates.**

-

**Alternate to the epilogue, because I decided that Erica's reveal was bigger than Lydia's and needed her in it. Technically, there's another scene before this one. The Stiles and Derek Reunion scene, which replaced the "Stiles leaves Derek a note" portion of the last chapter, but since I want to rework it into the sequel's reunion scene I'm not posting it here. :P Also, this was written when Lydia was still the one strapped to the table, something she insisted on to keep her cover. Changing it to Dr. Morrell was a last minute decision I'm still not sure on. On the one hand, she suggested it. On the other, Lydia was all set up to play damsel in distress and would know that the results wouldn't be permeant.**

Stiles pulls the driver's side door shut with a soft thud, feeling the vibrations of the dark car rumble through him, already started and waiting on him. It's not Roscoe, not his baby, but it wouldn't do to have his face flashing by where anyone can see. Not on this street. The GCPD may not be the brightest bunch, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut occassionally. All it takes is one too keen-eyed quack to read his doc's notes, seeing Derek's intimate thoughts on him, his fascination, and guessing at the tether tying them together. The thought of some half-bit nobody finding what that brilliant mind with all those dark crevasses gleamed from Stiles' time at- 

He cuts the thoughts off before they can spiral. He knows how his thoughts work, knows the edges and triggers, and doesn't wish to play in their shadows when there's work to do. 

"How's your little doctor?" The words are half-bored, half-mocking, belonging to a woman who cares nothing for the outcome, just the answer. "Happy to see you?" 

He rocks his head back and forth, uncertainty bubbling up and with it the addictive thrill of beginning something new. Of knowing the what, glimpsing the how, but the play out... therein lies the mystery. 

He turns instead to Lydia, watching delicate fingers trace the yellowing bruises on her wrist. He doesn't know why she bothers, she knows he doesn't feel guilty for them. 

Her green gaze draws him in, keeping him in the present. She's always been good at that. 

"You didn't have to come," he reminds her. 

"I could hardly let you go alone." The passenger side visor comes down, lighted mirror exposed as one hand coming up to fix an invisible flaw in her lipstick. "Scott was upset enough at your arrest and you know how he gets." 

He hums in reply, thoughts already straying back to the look Derek's face when he saw Stiles in his home. There was anger, unsurprising and delicious in a way he wants to properly enjoy. Later, when there's time. But there was relief too, and need, the beginning of a deep and clawing desperation, leaving Stiles warm and flush inside. Practically giddy on the almost-taste of it. 

Besides him, Lydia let's out a sigh as the first low laugh begins in the back of his throat, building and bubbling over until it spills out warm and uninhibited. 

"I take it this means it's not over?" He flashes his teeth at her and she hmm's in response before straightening her top as she settles in her seat. "You're telling Scott."

-

**Final scene! This was something I sort of wrote without the intention of ever use it in a chapter. It can technically be considered part of the story, since I fully believe this did happen after Stiles knocked Derek out in his cell. But since this is Derek's story about him falling in love with Stiles, I left this out. It's not a full scene, more the ending of one, but the beginning was sort of never written. Just know that Stiles got a gun from a guard and is almost to Eichen's exit. Warning: Mild spoilers for the sequel. You've been warned.**

"Go," Dr. Deaton says, holding the door open for Stiles. "I'll take care of doctors Martin and Hale." 

"You always did know more than you should, _Emmisary,_ " Stiles says with a wide, teeth baring grin. 

"We all have our parts to play, Sheriff." 

There's a gun in his hand before he contemplates drawing it, up and pointed at the man's head. The barrel shakes with tiny tremors he doesn't remember having, and he'd laugh but his eyes are wet, vision blurring, and something choking its way up his throat. 

_Don't think for a second I wouldn't burn it all down for you._

He can almost feel a hand on the back of his neck, that faint voice echoing in his ear. Meaningless phrases, half-forgotten and precious. 

Deaton doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't do anything but waits. Always waiting and watching but never acting. He's watching Stiles now with that fearless gaze, but makes no move toward him. Ever the observer. Sees what others miss. Stiles could hate him for that alone. 

A face flashes in his eyes, disproving gaze of a puppy that's learning it has a bite. 

The laugh that finally breaks forth is harsh and joyful, leaving his lips and taking that wet, chocking thing in his throat with it. The gun goes loose in his grip as he gives it a wave around the room, finger going lax. 

_Only place it on the trigger if you plan on squeezing. OK, son?_

He sniffs wetly, something soft and broken hiding itself just under the cackling laugh that's dying off. 

"You keep doing you, doc," he says, shaking the nose of the gun at him like a finger at a naughty child. He looks away, still lightly chuckling as he turns and leaves. 

Jokes on him, he guesses. 

**Hope you enjoyed the deleted/alternate scenes. A few I was really sad to not be able to use, especially since when I originally wrote this it wasn't nearly so long. But hey! Most of the rest that wasn't posted get's to be reworked and used again!**


End file.
